


Visca el Madrid

by MADR1D1SMO



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, El Clásico, FC Barcelona, Frenemies, Gen, Real Madrid CF, Rivalry, cris and leo will actually appear here a lot, theres a bunch of sergio/leo and geri/cris bonding, this is pure gen honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 14:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MADR1D1SMO/pseuds/MADR1D1SMO
Summary: Ramos/Piqué bodyswap AU





	Visca el Madrid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cantilever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantilever/gifts).



> some of the matches and events here are real, some aren’t (following the canon timeline is for the weak). also i finished this a few hours before the deadline so there's probably tons of typos in it, i'm so sorry rip. i promise i'll go through it again later hehe

 “Kale or spinach?”

Sergio tears his gaze away from his phone just in time to catch Cristiano dropping onto the empty seat next to him. “What?” He asks dumbly, blinking in confusion. He’s been having a headache ever since the match ended and Cristiano’s weird comments aren’t making it any easier for him.  
“I asked, kale or spinach?” Cristiano repeats patiently. “Marcelo said he likes spinach, but kale is disgusting, and I’m telling him that he can’t like spinach without liking kale. It’s like liking Iker but not liking Buffon.” The forward raises his eyebrows meaningfully, like he just said the smartest thing in the world. “Doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s not true.” Marcelo chimes in before Sergio can come up with a decent reply, or even process what he was just told. He flops down on the seat across from theirs and stares at Cristiano accusingly. “I said _both_ are disgusting. I don’t like spinach.”

“But that’s a lie.” Cristiano retorts stubbornly. “I saw you eating spinach rolls a thousand times. Don’t tell me I just dreamed it up.”

Marcelo places a hand over his chest. “That’s different.” He states pointedly. “It’s not _just_ spinach. You know, if you put kale into a roll, or on a pizza, or in a cake, I would eat that too. Just a bit of grass isn’t enough to ruin a good dish.” And before Cristiano has the chance to get offended at kale being called grass, he adds. “It’s like if Neuer started playing for Brazil now. Then I would like him.”

Sergio lets out a bark of laughter, drawing the attention of the two back to him, thus reminding them that why, hello, he’s also here. “I just. Imagined Neuer playing for Brazil.” He explains when he catches the weird looks the pair is giving him. “That would be hilarious.” Sergio raises a hand to rub his shoulder casually, but the movement doesn’t escape Cristiano’s attentive gaze.

“What, did you injure yourself?” He asks with a frown.

Sergio shakes his head. “No. I just. Um. Me and Piqué accidentally bumped into each other in the tunnel.”

He can see Cristiano and Marcelo simultaneously raising their eyebrows. “Accidentally?” The latter repeats, an amused smile playing on his lips.

Sergio narrows his eyes. “Yes. Accidentally.”

It’s true. Well, kind of. They were both looking at their phones, not really paying attention to what was happening around them and it just kind of happened. Sergio was replying to Pilar’s text, which she sent to congratulate him and the team on the last-minute draw, and Piqué-- well, why would he know what Piqué was doing. Planning out a tweet about how their last-minute equaliser was offside and Barcelona should’ve won, most likely. In any case, they ended up bumping into each other, full force.

“Watch your step.” He shouldn’t have said that, he knows. At least not _like that_ , not with that tone, not after what just happened on the pitch. But sometimes Sergio’s mouth worked faster than his brain. He was just thinking about apologising, but the button was already pushed.

Piqué’s lips curled in a fake smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, couldn’t see you from all the way up here, _Ramosito_.”

“Oh yeah?” Sergio raised an eyebrow. Well, no way in hell he’s apologising after _this_. “Well, at least I don’t purposefully go out of my way to get on people’s nerves.” Piqué lets out a bark of laughter that does nothing but heat the atmosphere up even more. Once the box opened it’s not so easy to close it, so Sergio goes on. “I’m nothing like you, you know.”

“Oh, thank god for that, I was worried for a second.” Piqué smirks at him, like it was him who just scored a last-minute equaliser, not Sergio. “I would rather die than be you.”

Sergio gives him a tight, dry smile. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here.”

So, well, yeah, it didn’t go so smoothly, and Iker probably wouldn’t have been very proud of him if he saw it, and both their coaches would probably be mad at them for causing drama right after the Clásico. So what.

“By the way,” Sergio says in an attempt to switch the subject. He’s still in a five stars mood after scoring the header, he doesn’t want to talk about _Piqué_. “Who am I rooming up with in the end?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s been some changes.” Cristiano responds. “Me and Marcelo were supposed to be together but there were some problems with one of the rooms so two of the pairs had to become trios. So I’ll be staying with Casemiro and Isco and Marcelo with Pepe and Dani.” He frowns. “No, wait, wrong. Pardon, _Dani_ will be staying with Isco and Casemiro and _I_ will be staying with Marcelo and Pepe.”

“Wait,” Marcelo interrupts him. “But didn’t we agree that Casemiro is staying with us, James with Dani and Isco, and Pepe with Sergio?”

“Oh. Right.” Cristiano turns around to face Sergio. “So you’ll be staying with Marcelo and I’ll be with Pepe and Casemiro.” Sergio starts considering that the reason for his headache is actually Cristiano. The guy talks a lot but Sergio doesn’t understand a single thing.

“Hey,” Marcelo touches Cristiano’s shoulder to get his attention. “We just agreed that _Pepe_ is staying with Sergio, no?”

“Yeah.” Is his reply, confusing both Marcelo and Sergio even more. “But you snort. And I need my beauty sleep. And Sergio sleeps like a bull, nothing can wake him up.”

Sergio furrows his eyebrows. “That’s not--”

Cristiano cuts his objection short. “It is. During one of our away matches last season I woke up in the middle of the night because I had to use the bathroom and dropped the nightstand, with all the stuff on it. You just rolled over to the other side and kept sleeping.”

“I don’t remember anything like that.”

“Yeah,” Cris drawls slowly. “Because you were sleeping.”

They arrive to the hotel in less than twenty minutes, it’s the same hotel they always stay at when they have away matches against Barcelona or Espanyol so everyone knows how everything works by now. They get the rooms’ keys; some head to their room straight away, some linger to chat with the others, not quite ready to go to sleep yet after what just happened in Camp Nou less than a few hours ago. Sergio is among the second group. By the time he gets to his room Cristiano is already in bed, scrolling through his phone.

“I thought I’m rooming with Marcelo?”

“Yeah,” Cris replies lazily, not looking away from the screen. “But Marcelo fell asleep in our room after dancing with Casemiro to some annoying reggaeton for twenty minutes straight. So now it’s me.”

Sergio decides to not ask any more questions, he would rather not get into the details of it. His head is still kind of hurting, which is strange. It would be one thing if it started after bumping into someone on the pitch, a bad fall, a sloppy tackle. But it began somewhere between the final whistle and showering in the dressing rooms, way _after_ the match. Sergio writes it off as exhaustion. Maybe it’s the effect Barcelona is having on him, too much culés at a time can never be good. He decides to go to sleep, choosing to ignore Cristiano’s ranting about how the internet was simply blown up with pictures of him and Messi, each article and post interpreting their interaction differently.

“What kind of bullshit, that’s not what I said!” Cris complains in annoyance, his voice becoming more and more distant as Sergio slowly falls asleep. “And that gesture in the first half, it was just that _Piqué_ almost put the ball into--”

Sergio’s mind tunes him out completely. He dreams about Camp Nou, about El Clásico. Cristiano refuses to play because apparently there’s been a mistake and instead of grass, the pitch is covered with kale. Sergio scores a header and the ref (who appears to be wearing Barcelona’s kit for some reason) gives him a red card for it, but when Sergio tries to argue he tells him that there’s been a new rule, stating that any players whose name is Sergio Ramos aren’t allowed to score headers. Then Zidane headbutts Enrique, which results in a fight that doesn’t stop until Iker and Xavi suddenly appear out of nowhere, dressed in magical black robes, and pull them apart.

 

-

 

The first thing Geri becomes aware of when he wakes up is that the weird headache from yesterday is gone. The second, as he drags his hand across his face, rubbing his eyes and chin, is that he needs to shave. He doesn’t remember his beard getting this long - not that he minds, but Shakira always complains that a) it’s tickling her face when they kiss and b) he looks like a caveman. He’s about to reach toward the nightstand and check the time on his phone, but suddenly there are two strong hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake.

“Get up, sleepy head!” The voice sounds strange but distantly familiar - did Luis or Leo stay over at his place after the match? He doesn't quite recall. “Come on, man! Or should I call Pepe to help me wake you up?”

“Very funny..” Geri mutters, voice still a bit hoarse after sleeping. He turns over and slaps the hand away. “What are you even--” He forces his eyes open finally and trails off. Suddenly, Geri is feeling incredibly awake.

“Oh, good.” Cristiano Ronaldo says, smirking down at him. He’s dressed in black sweats and a tight, white t-shirt, both with the ugly Madrid badge on them. There are headphones around his neck and his phone is clutched tightly in his left hand. “Breakfast already started fifteen minutes ago.” Ronaldo carries on casually, like everything is absolutely normal. “I’m gonna go down and join the others, and I really advise you to do the same, we have a bus back to Madrid in a couple of hours.” And without any further explanations the madridista exists the room.

Geri sits up so fast his head starts spinning. He can feel his heart beating rapidly in panic, as if it’s trying to jump out of his chest. He looks around, but it does nothing to calm him down. He seems to be in a hotel room and zero memory of how the hell did he get here. His first thought is “Did we fuck?”. The second is “No way in hell, I would rather die, no matter how drunk I was”. But there really is no logical explanation to why he ended up with Cristiano Ronaldo in the same hotel room, after a Clásico night. And more importantly, why is Ronaldo acting like it’s no big deal, like they’re some kind of close friends?

He _has_ to be dreaming. Either that, or Neymar dragged him to a bar and got him _really_ fucking high on some shit.

Geri throws the covers off and shuffles toward the bathroom. He walks over to the sink and splashes some cold water on his face. The coldness of it feels pretty real. Geri raises his head to reach for a towel and that’s when he spots it. His reflection in the mirror.

An involuntary yelp escapes his throat as he takes a few steps back, away from the mirror. If it wasn’t for the wall behind him he would’ve probably fell. Eyes wide in shock, Geri stares at himself-- no, not at himself. It isn’t him in the mirror. There’s no spiky hair, no dark brown beard, no light blue eyes. The face staring back at him is different but not unfamiliar. The equally wide and shocked eyes are of a light brown hue, the hair is lighter and softer, sticking out in different directions. He looks down at his hands, horrified to find them covered with a bunch of ugly tattoos he hasn’t noticed before. It isn’t him. It’s Sergio fucking Ramos.

Geri feels sick.

“I’m hallucinating.” He whispers to himself, burying his face in his hands. He rubs his eyes and looks up again, but nothing changes. He repeats the action a few times, just to be sure, but to no avail. It doesn’t make any sense.

Geri rushes out of the bathroom back toward the beds. He goes through the items on the nightstand until he finds what he was looking for: a phone. He turns it on frantically, eyes scanning the upper part of the screen - _Sunday, December 4th, 2016_ , it reads. He isn’t sure what’s stronger, the relief of _wow, I didn’t go crazy_ or the disappointment of _fuck, this isn’t a dream_.

Or maybe it is? Just a very detailed one? Geri goes for the next option: googling the report of last night’s Clásico. If even _this one_ is 100% accurate he’ll give in, he tells himself, there’s no way he could be dreaming this vividly. But then-- Oh, well. Geri mentally kicks himself for being so dumb.

_The password_.

He stares at the smartphone in betrayal. He tries thinking what password would he put if he was Sergio Ramos. The Madrid defender doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to choose a random combination of numbers, he’s too simple for that. It would be his birthday, maybe his wife’s. Geri tries entering the year of his birth, he knows Ramos is one year older than him, so that makes it 1986.

_Wrong_.

He wants to try the day and month next and that’s when he meets his next obstacle. He doesn’t know Ramos’ birthdate. And, well, to be fair, why would he? He tries throwing in random numbers - 0000, 1234, 9999. None of them work. He keeps doing it until he runs out of attempts and the phone gets locked. Geri shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He needs some fresh air.

He goes through the items in the duffel bag lying carelessly next to the bed until he finds a pair of sweats and a hoodie that don’t have a Real Madrid badge on them (he’s nowhere near prepared for _that_ yet). Throwing them on quickly, he shoves the room card and the phone into his back pocket (he’ll try again later) and slips out of the room.

The thing is, that in order to go outside he _has_ to go through the dining room, where a bunch of Blancos are currently sitting and eating breakfast without a care in the world. _Worse_ , a bunch of Blancos who think that he’s one of them. Geri pulls on the hoodie and keeps his head down, but it does nothing to hide him from the others’ eyes.

“Hey, Sergio!” Carvajal calls out to him. “Come sit with us!”

Carvajal, Vázquez, Isco, Ronaldo, Pepe and Marcelo are all sitting around the same table, chatting loudly. Geri looks up and smiles at them, hoping it looks convincing (it’s really not. But they don’t seem to notice it).

“Oh, hi guys! Um. What’s up? I’m great.” He lets out a small laugh but it comes out as more of a grunt. “Sorry, I can’t. I gotta go outside for a sec, I, uh,” _I’m Gerard Piqué_ “I dropped my phone out of the window and I, uh, gotta go pick it up.”

Marcelo and Ronaldo exchange glances. Isco raises an eyebrow. Then Carvajal speaks up. “You really do have a thing for.. Y’know.. Dropping things..” There’s a second of dead silence and then the whole table bursts into laughter. Pepe chokes on his porridge and Ronaldo almost hits his forehead on the table. Geri is confused for a moment before he remembers _oh yeah, the Copa_.

He lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah, um, real funny. Ha ha. You’re all so hilarious. I gotta go, bye.” Nobody tries to stop him this time, everyone's too busy clutching their hurting stomachs and banging their fists on the table. _God help me_ , Geri thinks.

He steps outside, inhaling the fresh morning air. It’s quieter outside, which is already better, makes it easier to think clearly. He looks around, trying to locate where he currently is. This is Barcelona, this is his _home_ , he knows it like he knows Barça’s schedule. And he does, indeed, he can recognise the name of the street, the road in front of the hotel, the houses around it. Geri pulls out the phone and tries a few other combinations. Nothing seems to be working. He clicks his tongue in frustration, shoves it into the hoodie’s pocket angrily and keeps staring. He just needs a moment to sort his thoughts out. By the time he goes back inside there’s almost nobody left in the dining room.

 

When he enters the room again it’s empty, but there’s the sound of running water from the bathroom so he figures Ronaldo is in there. Geri flops onto the bed and picks up the phone again, turning it around in his hands. He wonders if he’ll ever get the code right or if it’s just better to go and buy a new phone. Actually, why hasn’t he thought about it before? It’s not like Ramos is poor or something.

The bathroom door opens and Ronaldo steps out, in nothing but a pair of unnecessarily tight, bright red CR7 boxers. “Oh, here you are.”

Geri tenses. Him and Ronaldo have already been teammates before, but it was years ago. The Portuguese has changed a lot since then and Geri doesn’t really know how to talk to the man standing in front of him. Especially when he’s stuck in...this state. What relationship do Ramos and Ronaldo have? Do they joke around? Do they tolerate each other but no more than that? Where is the border?

“Hi.” He replies briefly, still playing with the phone in his hands.

With the corner of his eye, he sees Ronaldo walking over to his own bed and picking something up from the nightstand next to it. “Here, catch it.”

Geri looks up but he’s too slow, because the moment he does, something hard hits his face. “Hey! Dude, what the--” He props himself up on his elbows and picks up the item from where it landed next to him on the bed after ricocheting off his face. It’s a large, wrapped sandwich.

“Ham and mustard.” Ronaldo comments casually while putting on a pair of jeans, like it’s normal for teammates to hit each other in the face with sandwiches. “You didn’t join us for breakfast in the end and I figured you would be hungry, so.”

_Oh._ “Uh. Thanks, I guess.” Geri says awkwardly, studying the sandwich.

Ronaldo pulls on a white t-shirt and then picks up his duffel bag and drops it on the bed. “You should start packing, by the way.” He adds.

“Oh yeah?” Geri is nowhere near ready for any of it. “What’s the time?”

“Almost ten.”

“And when’s our bus?”

“At eleven. Zizou said it about a million times.” Ronaldo stops in the middle of folding his shirt to give him a look. “God, I can’t believe you’re our captain.” Well, at least there’s this one thing him and Ronaldo can agree on. Good to know. “I should be the captain instead, you know.” Ronaldo throws the folded shirt into his bag and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “I’m much more mature and responsible. I actually remember things.”

Geri isn’t sure what to make of it. Is the Portuguese being serious? There are always gossip and rumours running around about the hostile atmosphere among the Blanco teammates, but, hey, there are also rumours about the MSN faking their friendship. Geri always tried to not pay too much attention to any of those, but now, looking at them interact..

Ronaldo looks up from the clothes scattered around on his bed. “God, I was just joking. What’s with you today?” He grins at him cheekily and nudges Geri’s knee with his foot. It takes everything in him not to move away. “Seriously,” Ronaldo goes on casually. “You’ve been acting all weird this morning. Didn’t eat, didn’t make a single comment about saving our asses yesterday.” He laughs. “I think that’s a record! Did you hit your head on that ball a bit too hard yesterday?”

Geri gives him a crooked smile. Honestly, he just wants to get out of this room as soon as possible. “Maybe.” He sinks back into the pillows and returns his attention to the phone. If only he could _ask_ someone. But how would he even do it. ‘Hi dude, I forgot the password to my own phone because this is actually _not_ my phone, could you help a brother out?’. Yeah, sure, nice try. And that’s when he gets an idea.

“Hey, Ronaldo,” He realises his mistake only after the name slips out of his mouth but the Portuguese seems unbothered by the sudden use of his surname, probably thinking Ramos is teasing him, so he goes on. “You say you should be the captain because you know everything, but I bet you don’t know the password to my phone.”

The forward raises his eyebrows challengingly, a hint of a smug smirk at the corner of his lips. “Wanna try me?”

Geri throws the phone into his hands. “Shoot. You’ve got three attempts.”

Ronaldo sends him a smirk, as if saying ‘watch me’, and types in four numbers with his thumb. The screen lights up and then the phone unlocks. Geri is left staring at him with his mouth wide open.

Ronaldo’s smirk grows wider. “Told you.” He throws the phone back to him and returns to packing his things, a self-satisfied expression on his face. He probably thinks his shocked expression is due to the fact that he managed to unlock it, but in reality it has nothing to do with it. What surprised Geri this much was the _number_ , the code Ronaldo typed in.

9248.

The exact time of Ramos’ Décima goal.

Just how much of a proud, egocentric jerk does Ramos have to be to choose something like this as the password to his phone? And at the same time, somehow, it fits him, it sounds like something he would do. Geri mentally hits himself for not thinking about it earlier.

He probably stays staring at his phone a tiny bit too long, because suddenly Ronaldo appears next to him, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sergio Ramos?”

Geri looks up. “Huh?”

Ronaldo sighs impatiently. “Are you going to pack your things or are you staying in Barcelona until the next Clásico?”

Geri blinks. “What things?”

The Portuguese rolls his eyes in frustration. “You know what? Go take a shower, maybe it’ll wake you up. Don’t worry about packing, I’ll take care of your stuff.” And before he can respond Ronaldo grabs his arm, pulling him up to his feet, and pushes him in the direction of the bathroom. “Go!” He gives him a light kick on the butt as a final goodbye and turns back to their bags.

Geri doesn’t try to protest, he really won’t mind being left alone right now. He hasn’t interacted with Ronaldo in the last ten years as much as he did in the last five minutes and it’s making his head spin. He locks the door behind him and turns on the water but doesn’t enter the shower yet. Leaning against the sink, he unlocks the phone (92:48, who could’ve thought) and goes through the pages. There isn’t much to see, it’s a phone just like any other. Somehow, Geri finds his thumb being automatically drawn to the contacts icon and before he knows it he’s scrolling through Ramos’ saved numbers until he reaches the letter P. There, right under “Pilar” is his name, Piqué. Geri blinks at it a few times, it’s weird seeing his own name like this.

And that’s when he starts thinking. He’s been so focused on the situation he’s in that he completely forgot the other side of it. What does it mean, what happened to _his_ body and what happened to the _real_ Ramos? Nothing makes sense, but even in a mess such as this there has to be some kind of logic, an algorithm. If he’s in Ramos’ body, shouldn’t it mean that Ramos is in his? The realisation hits him like a rock and he feels his head starting to spin again. Him in Ramos’ body is bad enough, but Ramos in his is an absolute _disaster_. For all he knows the Sevillian could be out there in the streets of Barcelona right now, completely naked, waving a Real Madrid flag and singing “Long live Florentino Perez” at the top of his lungs.

Geri covers his mouth with a hand. “Fuck.”

He shoves the phone into his pocket and practically runs out of the bathroom. “I gotta go, be back in a sec!” He yells to a confused Ronaldo with no further explanations and then he’s out of the room.

“Hey, and who’s gonna turn off the water?” He hears the Portuguese yelling behind him. “Hey! Sergio!”

Geri bumps into Modric, apologises, bumps into Pepe, doesn’t apologise, and then almost trips over a chair. When he gets outside one of the hotel workers is standing there, smoking, but when he sees Geri he immediately nods in understanding and leaves.

Geri pulls out the phone, thumb hovering over his name in the contacts list. He has Ramos’ name in his contacts too. They’ve exchanged numbers after the 2010 World Cup (Iker made them all do it) and haven’t used them since then. The numbers have been lying in their phones untouched for almost seven years (except for that one time when Sergio got so drunk he accidentally called him after La Undécima, but Geri immediately hung up and they never talked about it). He hesitates for a brief moment, but it doesn’t last more than a few seconds.

He hits the call button. There is a long series of rings and then the call goes to voicemail. Geri curses and tries again. On his fourth attempt, somebody finally picks up.

“Hello?”

Geri knows that voice. It’s his own.

 

-

 

Sergio is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at himself in the mirror. Well, not exactly _himself_ , but who cares anymore. There’s a pretty large, purple bruise on his shoulder from when he freaked out, stepped backwards, tripped over the bathtub and fell right onto the water tap. Yes, it was just as painful as it sounds.

Somebody once told him there are seven stages of grief: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing and acceptance. Well, Sergio thinks he’s gone from shock straight to anger, back to denial and then jumped all the way over to numb acceptance. He doesn’t think anything, it seems like he’s forgotten how to think at all, the only thing he’s able to do is sit here in a body that isn’t his, in a bathroom that isn’t his, in a house that isn’t his, in a city that isn’t his and pity himself.

Is this a cruel joke? Or god’s way of punishing him for all the bad thing he’s done in life? Sure, Sergio may not be a saint, he might’ve gotten some red cards in his life, messed with Cristiano’s gel and put glue in Iker’s gloves that one time on April Fools’, but he certainly doesn’t deserve _this._ He throws his head back and closes his eyes. _Maybe God is a culé and he’s punishing me for all those times I fouled Messi_.

The phone rings again. It’s been ringing non-stop for the past two minutes but Sergio doesn’t feel like answering. Whether it’s Enrique asking why he isn’t at practice or Suárez calling to let him know Neymar tried to do a bicycle kick and broke his leg, it’s none of _his_ business. But the reggaeton is really annoying and it’s slowly driving him even crazier than he already is.

“Geez, for fuck’s sake!” Sergio jumps up to his feet and stomps out of the bathroom back toward the bedroom angrily, determined to get rid of the noise in any possible way. He doesn’t care what happens to it, the big log can buy himself a new phone.

He picks up the phone from the nightstand, ready to throw it out of the window, but then his eyes catch the name on the screen.

_Ramos_.

Sergio blinks. What does it even mean? Did he die, go to hell, and now his ghost is calling him? He doesn’t let himself think too much into it, just pressing the ‘accept call’ button and pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”  
Silence. Then, “Hi.”

It’s brief, short, barely a full syllable. But it’s enough. It’s like he finally found the final piece to the puzzle. Sergio’s eyes widen in shock and he stumbles back, dropping his full weight down onto the bed. It can’t possibly be who he thinks it is.

“No fucking way… _Piqué..?!_ ”

The person on the other end of the line huffs. “Oh, thank god, I got scared for a moment that I _really_ am Sergio Ramos.”

“But..” Sergio’s free hand goes up, resting on his forehead and dragging down his face in frustration. “How is this even possible?”

“I don’t fucking know, okay?” Piqué snaps. “I’m just as confused as you, so don’t ask me.”

Sergio pinches the bridge of his nose. This isn’t right. “How long are you, uh...like this..already?”

“Long enough to know I don’t like it.” Piqué replies sharply. “Also, Ronaldo got even more annoying since I last talked to him. Record-breaking.”

Sergio chooses to leave the last part with no comments, it’s not the time. “Listen.”

“No, _you_ listen.” Piqué cuts him off. “Apparently you guys are supposed to go back to Madrid in about..”

“Less than an hour. I know.”

“Yes. And there’s no way I’m going to fucking _Madrid_ of all places before we sort this whole thing out.” Piqué makes a long pause for dramatism. Sergio hates him. “I’m dead serious.”

“Okay, dude, calm down, let me think.” Sergio furrows his eyebrows and stares at the ceiling. He isn’t good at thinking. “Okay, look,” He says finally. “How about this: tell them that I - I mean, you - have some photoshoot for an ad with Nike or some shit, seriously, just make something up, and that you’re gonna take a cab back to Madrid. This way we can meet up somewhere and discuss, uh… _this_.”

Piqué thinks about it for a moment. “Alright, sounds like a plan. I know a place where we can meet, I’ll send you the address. Do you know the password to my phone?”

Sergio shakes his head, even if the other can’t see it. “No.”

“It’s Shakira’s birthday. Figure it out by yourself. Bye.”

Sergio stares at the screen that’s gone back to black now. What a fucking asshole.

 

“I hate you, you know.” Is the first thing Sergio tells Piqué when he sees him. “I had to stop like ten strangers to ask them when is Shakira’s birthday. They all thought it was a prank and just laughed and asked to take a picture with me.”

Piqué sends him a smirk, not bothering to stand up and greet him properly. It’s weird because these are Sergio’s lips, Sergio’s facial features, Sergio’s body, but the smirk itself is not his, it’s Piqué’s. It’s that painfully familiar, cocky ‘test me’, the infamous ‘let me prove you wrong’, the kind of smirk he would give him after beating him in a card game or intercepting his pass during a Clásico. Sergio snarls when he’s unfairly carded by the ref and sneers when his tackle send the ball away from a forward’s feet, but he doesn’t smirk like that, and it kind of freaks him out to see this expression on himself.

Not that he’s ever going to let it show, yeah?

He sits down on the chair opposite to Piqué’s, throwing a few curious glances around the place. Piqué changed the location about three times, to the point that Sergio started thinking he was doing it on purpose just to get on his nerves. The final choice is pretty good, though, he has to admit. They’re sitting in the VIP area of a small bar. There’s little to no customers at this point of the day and the lightning is very dim, as if it’s the middle of the night, so the chances someone spots them are really low.

Finally, Piqué gets tired of waiting for Sergio to finish his self-tour around the bar and says. “Okay, listen, let’s just--”

“Shh!” Sergio hushes him, cutting whatever he was going to say short. “Wait a moment.” He reaches his hand forward and presses the palm of his hand against Piqué’s face. He can feel his own beard under his fingers, his lips, his cheeks, eyebrows, eyelids.

Piqué closes his eyes. A moment passes.

“Ramos?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you something?” Piqué asks, voice muffled by the hand on his face.

“Shoot.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“Oh. Um,” Sergio jerks his hand away. “I just.. I thought it’s gonna be like in The Princess and the Frog. The moment we touch each other the, uh, spell will just disappear.” He makes a vague gesture in the air. “Like- Poof, and we’re back in our own bodies. Or something. I don’t know.”

Piqué studies him with an intense gaze for a moment. “So… Who’s the princess and who’s the frog?”

Sergio is glad that out of all the questions Piqué could ask him he chose this one. “Well, obviously I’m the prince.” He says confidently with a smug grin. “The prince of Madrid and Spain. Stuck in the body of a...frog.”

The other snorts. “Okay, I see. Then I’m probably an evil blaugrana wizard stuck in the body of a tattooed hippie.”

Sergio blinks at him. _Excuse me?_ “In the body of a what?”

“Nothing. Hey,” Piqué snaps his fingers in front of Sergio’s face. “Pay attention.”

“To what? To the fact that you just called me a tattooed hippie?”

“Dude, I’m serious. We don’t have the whole day.” Piqué raises his wrist, pointing his index finger at an invisible watch. “Sorry to remind you, but _you_ have a match to play in two days. Until then you have to get used to my style of play, bond with the team, and memorise the names of the whole Barcelona squad because I’m pretty sure you don’t know half of them.”

Sergio frowns. “Oh shit, do I?” Somehow, he thought that by meeting up face to face the problem will get solved by itself. He hasn’t considered the possibility of _being_ Piqué as in playing for _Barça_ yet, but he already doesn’t like the sound of it. “Who are you playing?”

“The German team with the long name.” Piqué responds casually. Sergio would make fun of him for not knowing the name of the opponent, but the truth is he knows what club the other is talking about and he can’t pronounce the name as well. The only person he knows who can is Toni, and Toni is _German_.

“Yeah, wow.” Sergio tilts his head slightly and rubs the back of his neck. _This is going to be a long day_. “We’ve got a lot of things to go through, huh?”

“Indeed.” Piqué’s fingers are drumming a steady rhythm against the wooden surface of the table. Sergio wonders if it’s just a nervous habit or a way to get under his skin. “Well, let’s look at the bright side. We only have two-three matches before winter break. We could discuss all of that then. Worst case scenario - fake an injury until then.”

Sregio’s eyes shoot up to meet Piqué’s. Doesn’t he know? “Um.” Sergio pauses, wondering if there’s a softer way to say it. There isn’t, the truth is as harsh as it gets. “I’m afraid you won’t have much of a winter break.”

Piqué frowns. “And why is that?”

“We have. You know.” He probably doesn’t. “The Club World Cup.”

Piqué’s eyes widen comically. “ _No._ ” Sergio nods in confirmation, he’s not messing with him. “Jesus fuck.” He throws his head back and buries his face in his hands. “I completely forgot you guys had that thing.” Sergio would crack a joke about CL titles and Madrid being better than Barcelona, but he’s really not in the mood.

“Yeah, huh.”

Now when he’s said it aloud it seems even worse. This is an important competition for them. It may not be as big as La Liga or the Champions League, but every game, every title counts. They have a very high chance of winning it and it would do wonders to the team spirit. Sergio was looking forward to it, all of them were. The fans are counting on them, counting on _him_ , as the captain, and now… Now it’s all in _Piqué_ ’s hands. Piqué of all people. The universe hates him.

Piqué drops his head to rest against the cold table. “Let’s just give up on all of it and move to an abandoned island or something.” He mumbles, voice slightly muffled.

“You can, _I_ can’t.” Sergio snaps, suddenly feeling angry. “I’m a captain you know, I have responsibilities. My team actually needs me. Both Madrid and Spain.”

Piqué immediately sits up at his words, a furious flame in his eyes. “What are you implying?” He shoots angrily. “Oh yeah, you have responsibilities? Like what? Flipping coins before a game and lifting the trophies?”

Sergio clenches his fists so hard he can feel the nails biting into his skin. “Well,” He says, trying to keep his tone cold and indifferent. He isn’t very successful. “It’s not like _you_ would know what it is like. ‘El presidente’, my ass. Don’t talk about what you can’t reach, Piqué.”

The other laughs, just throws his head back and laughs. It looks like Sergio’s opinion is the last thing in the world he cares about, and despite his best efforts it makes Sergio angry. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll find you a replacement pretty quickly. Iniesta is a much better captain than you anyway.” He shoots back with a smirk. “Wanna bet Perez was drunk when he was choosing the new captain after kicking out--”

“Enough!” Sergio stands up abruptly, almost dropping the whole table with the sudden movement. “You can do whatever the fuck you want, Piqué, I don’t fucking care. I’m done with you. And give me back _my_ phone.” He pulls Piqué’s phone out of his pocket, throwing it onto the table carelessly, and grabs his own out of the other’s grip. The other man doesn’t try to protest, why would he mind.

Sergio stomps toward the exit, storming outside. He can barely acknowledge what’s happening around him, he can only see red. He steps straight onto the road, not looking around him. Suddenly there’s a blindingly bright light, the loud sound of a car honk and a strong gust of wind blowing his his face. Sergio jumps back on instinct. The car passes by a few millimeters away from him, leaving his hair and shirt tousled and messy. His heart is beating so fast he can hear it in his head. Sergio takes a few steps back until he can feel a steady wall behind him and slowly sinks down to a sitting position.

He finds himself wondering what would happen if he was hit by a car right now, to death. Would Piqué die and Sergio would return back to his body? Or would he die like this, making Piqué trapped in his body forever? Would it affect them both? Sergio doesn’t want to find out.

He can feel the phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulls it out, checking the screen. It’s an instagram notification. He clicks on it, which sends him straight to his ig messages. It looks like his teammates have been busy spamming him with pictures from yesterday’s game the whole day. It’s honestly quite amazing how it’s been less than twenty four hours since El Clásico and the fans have already managed to create so many things. Some of them are amazing, others are absolutely hilarious.

Sergio checks his messages next. There’s an unanswered call from Zizou and a few messages from Dani, Cristiano and Marcelo.

_«hey, will you be back by 8?»_ Marcelo’s text reads. _«we want to throw a party at cris’ place. he doesnt know about it tho so shhh»_

Sergio chuckles reading it. He already misses them.

_«we’ll see»_ He texts back and puts the phone back into his pocket.

He stands up, brushing the dust off his pants, and turns around to take a look at the bar again. He wonders if Piqué has already left or if he’s still in there. They need to talk, they can’t run away from each other this time.

 

-

 

Geri feels regret as soon as Ramos storms out of the bar. Not because of what he said, no, he doesn’t regret _that_. It was nothing but the truth (even if slightly exaggerated) and if he went a bit too far then oh, well, the other deserved it. He started it himself. But he does regret getting into this stupid argument to begin with. This is serious, they can’t keep running away from each other anymore. That’s not how it works now.

He picks up his phone, scrolling through his contacts list until he reaches Ramos’ name. He wonders if there’s any use calling him or he just won’t pick up. Maybe it’s better to let him cool off for now. He’s not wrong, apparently, because a bit more than five minutes later the door opens again and Ramos comes in, the hoodie of his sweater pulled over his head. He walks over to the table lazily, avoiding Geri’s gaze, and flops down on the seat across from him.

Silence follows. Geri doesn’t mind, he redirects his attention back to the phone at his hand and keeps scrolling through his instagram feed with a bored look until the other finally speaks up.

“I almost got hit by a car.”

Geri looks up from the screen. “Oh yeah?” And Ramos said that he had it worse. Ha. Having someone like Ramos controlling your body is plain dangerous. “You know, I don’t really care, do whatever you want but..” He gestures at the other, pointing his finger at his head and dragging it down to the waist. “I would be very happy if by the time I get my body back all my limbs will be in place.”

The other defender lets out a sarcastic laugh. He wants to apologise for what he said earlier, he can see it on his face. Geri knows because he wants to apologise too, but he also knows neither of them is going to do it. They will just act as if nothing happened.

“Here.” Ramos says suddenly, putting his phone down on the table. “Look.” Geri does look. But all he sees is the contacts list.

“Well, and?”

“Test number one.” Ramos explains, holding up one finger in the air. “Guess whose nickname it is. This is some basic madridista knowledge.”

Geri rolls his eyes. This isn’t where he wanted to start. “Okay, fine.” He scans the screen with his eyes. A frown. “Who’s Frank?”

Ramos grins. “That’s Bale’s middle name. He hates it. We call him that when we want to tease him.”

“Okaaay.” Geri scrolls lower. “And who’s oregano?”

“Oh, that’s a funny one!” Ramos leans against the back of his seat like an old man who’s about to tell a story to his grandchildren. “It’s Cristiano, Ronaldo for you. He used to be ‘kale’ but then one time when I came over I caught him watering a bush of oregano with lemonade because apparently it ‘makes the oregano grow faster’ so now that’s my contact name for him.”

Geri doesn’t want to but he can’t help but laugh. “Wait, does Ronaldo really--”

“Cris.” Ramos cuts him off.

“What?”

“Cris.” He repeats slowly. “That’s what we call him. You should start getting used to it.”

“Alright.” Geri tastes the sound of it on his tongue. “Cris.” He used to call him that when they both played at Manchester, but it was a very long time ago. Ramos is right, he should start getting used to it again. “Then Messi is Leo for you.”

Ramos nods slowly. “Leo.”

“Yeah, Leo.”

They spend a pretty solid amount of hours discussing their daily schedules and their relationships with their teammates. Geri tells him who he usually hangs out with during practice and after it, the inside jokes he and Neymar share, how to react if Leo suddenly calls to rant about his national team. Ramos does the same - explains what to say and not say after a loss, how to respond to some specifically repetitive questions from the journalists, how to celebrate if he scores. He even makes Geri memorise all the personalised handshakes he has with some of his teammates, even though Geri keeps insisting that it’s unnecessary.

They both play in the same position so that makes it easier for them, at least they won’t have to drastically change their style of play. They both have the same training schedule and, apparently, even their daily workouts in the gym are more or less the same.

They spend hours talking about it - their diets, where they keep the car keys, where they shop and what kind of clothes they wear - but in the end it still seems like it’s not enough. Geri hasn’t even realised how many things they all do every day that are so critical to who they are. He looks at the long list of notes he wrote down in his (well, _Ramos’_ ) phone. These are tiny details, nothing will happen if he changes any of them. But if all of them change at once..

“Let’s just make something clear.” Ramos places both his hands on the table, a serious expression decorating his face. “I hate Barça. You hate Madrid.”

Geri snorts. “I think _this_ is pretty clear.”

“Yes, _but_.” Sergio pauses for a moment to think of how to phrase it, playing with his bottom lip. “For now, we put all of it aside. No matter how angry or upset we get, there’s no way one of us lets a goal through on purpose, or scores an own goal, or says something to ruin the other's reputation, or… I don’t know.”

Geri nods slowly. He understands. “Of course.” He may not like Madrid that much, but he likes Barça. He _loves_ Barça, he lives and breathes this club. And while he doesn’t experience anything like that toward Madrid, he can _understand_ how Ramos feels, how important it is to him, because he feels the same.

“Then we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

It’s pretty late by the time they finish. Ramos calls the cab driver he usually uses when he needs to get somewhere in Spain (who’s apparently some kind of childhood friend of his dad). His name is Rafael and he’s a friendly-looking man in his late fifties. He greets him with a warm smile and asks him about yesterday’s game. Apparently Geri’s lack of enthusiasm is showing because the next moment Rafael is turning off the radio and telling him he’ll wake him up when they arrive to Madrid (“Tired, huh? Not surprising!”). Geri takes his advice and dozes off to sleep.

He kind of hopes to get into bed and forget about anything that could possibly remind him of Ramos or Real Madrid. It turns out to be a harder task than he originally imagined because practically _everything_ about Ramos’ place reminds him of Ramos. From the two huge flags of Spain and Andalucia on his wall and the silver “SR4” above his fireplace to the Madrid badge on half of his coffee mugs and the gate code.

(“Do you know what’s the code to the gate?” Geri looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. “9248?” Ramos laughed. “No. But pretty close. It’s 1902.” “You grandpa’s birthday or something?” Ramos’s lips pulled up into a cheeky smirk. “Nah. That’s the year Real Madrid was founded.”)

Now, opening the door to the house, Geri curses Ramos once again for being such a blanco. It hasn’t even been twenty four hours yet and he’s already learned about Real Madrid more than he did through his entire life.

Geri drops the duffel bag on the kitchen counter (he’ll sort it out later) and drags himself lazily over to the coffee machine. He really won’t mind some coffee (he remembers Ramos mentioning he usually drinks his with a bit of milk and a lot of sugar but it’s not like there’s anybody around to notice that he didn’t add any sugar into his coffee).

Suddenly, the silence is interrupted by the sound of a door unlocking behind him. Geri tenses. He’s definitely heard the lock turning - it’s not a burglar. What if it’s one of his new teammates? What if it’s Marcelo? Or Carvajal? Or even worse - what if it’s Ronaldo again? Geri actually considers hiding under the table for a second.

That’s what he would’ve probably done in the end, if not for the voice. It keeps him standing where he is, frozen. It’s a voice he faintly recalls hearing a couple of times. And while he has nothing against the owner of the voice specifically, he really doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“Oh, you’re home already.” The woman smiles warmly and slowly walks over to where he’s standing. “How was your day, amor?”

Geri can’t move. He stares at Pilar, Pilar Rubio, Ramos’ wife (oh yeah, Ramos, just like him, has a _wife and two children_ ).

He watches in horror, frozen in place, as Pilar reaches her arm to place a hand on the back of his neck. She pulls his head down to her level and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Congrats on the goal.” She says fondly, pulling away to look at him. “Junior and Marco were so excited.” She looks like she’s about to pull him in for another kiss, a _real_ one this time, and Geri freaks out.

He jerks away and steps back only to bump into the counter behind him. It makes the mug standing on it fall down, shattering into pieces and setting the coffee in it free, all over the floor.

“Fuck! Shit, oh no, I’m so sorry.” Geri turns around, searching for a napkin among the mountain of different plates, pots and glasses. “I’m so clumsy.” He lets out a nervous laugh, not meeting Pilar’s eyes. He grabs a light green cloth, about to lean down and pick up the largest pieces.

Pilar grabs his wrist, stopping him. “No, this one’s for eating, silly.” She says with a laugh. “Let me help.” She reaches to grab a kitchen roll but Geri stops her.

“No!” There’s probably something alarming in the way he says it and stretches both his arms forward because Pilar does stop, giving him a look. “I’m just. Uh.” Geri bites his lip. He scans Pilar’s outfit with his eyes quickly - she’s wearing a formal dress, probably back from work. _Get a grip on yourself, Gerard_ , he tells himself. “You must be tired, amor.” He places a hand on Pilar’s shoulder, gently pushing her away, toward the staircase. “You should rest, I can handle this, really.”

Pilar looks positively surprised. “Oh, really.” She doesn’t seem to mind the idea and Geri feels relieved. “Alright,” She touches the tip of his nose with her finger. “I’ll be waiting for you to join me.”

Geri tries his best to force a realistic-looking smile. “Of course, darling.”

The moment she disappears out of his sight he drops the smile and sinks down onto the floor. He sits there for a moment, trying to analyze things and find a logical explanation for the hundredth time this day. They were so busy with the matches, championships, teammates and the press they completely forgot about their own families. Maybe some part of him thought that Shakira would automatically switch bodies with Pilar. Well, obviously that’s not how it works.

The feeling of something sticky and wet touching his hand brings him back to reality. _The fucking coffee_. Geri jerks his hand away in disgust. “God dammit.” He really has to clean this whole mess up.

While he’s throwing out the shattered pieces of the mug and the used kitchen towel his phone keeps buzzing, but Geri chooses to ignore it. Whoever it is, they can _wait_. Now is not the time.

When he’s done he throws a glance at the clock. It’s already past eleven. He decides to wait until midnight to make sure that Pilar falls asleep by the time he goes to their bedroom. He really doesn’t want to face her until he talks to Ramos.

So he goes outside, into the garden. Geri has never been the type of guy who likes spending time alone thinking about things, but this kind of situation makes him understand why some people do. It’s all kind of overwhelming and a big too big for him.

He looks up at the sky - at least this one thing stayed the same, the stars you can see from Madrid are the same you see in Barcelona - but the only thing his mind can concentrate on is how white the stars are. _White_ . Not his color. Never has been. Too plain, too simple. _Boring_. He likes Barça’s colours more than anything, they’re loud, bright, passionate, always trying to stand out. Imperfect but so, so meaningful.

On his way to the bedroom he stops by the kitchen to grab his phone. He stops once he notices who the five missed calls are from.

Ramos.

Geri has a bad feeling about this. He’s been so focused on his own side of the story he didn’t stop to think about the consequences of it on the _other_ side. His mind quickly draws him a detailed image of Ramos making out with Shakira but he pushes it away quickly pushes it away before his paranoia gets the best of him.

Ramos picks up after the first ring.

“Dude, you have _no idea_ who I just met, this is insane!”

“Listen, I-”

“ _Shakira._ ”

Geri runs a hand through his hair. “What’s with her?”

“I’m saying, I get to your house and you know who’s in there? Shakira. You know, the one who wrote Waka Waka for the World Cup?”

Geri presses his lips into a thin line. “Yes, I know, we’re _married_.”

“Well, I didn’t know that-- I mean, of course I did, who doesn’t? But it’s not exactly the kind of information I keep at the top of my memory, you get what I mean? Man, I stood there frozen for about two minutes, I think I got her worried.” Ramos lets out a laugh.

Geri holds his breath. “What happened?”

“Dude, she tried to _hug_ me. Shakira tried to hug me, okay? So I freaked out, tried to step back and tripped over some fucking chair. She was laughing so hard.” Another laugh. “Man, I hope you have a good insurance because I’ll probably end up breaking a leg before I get used to this height.”

Geri is not amused. “And then?” He presses.

“And then nothing! We drank coffee and talked about the match.” His tone takes a smug tone. “She said my goal was pretty good.”

“I see.” Geri is more than sure she said that to tease him, she does that a lot, but he’s not going to say it. If the thought of Shakira considering his header ‘pretty good’ makes Ramos feel better he’ll let him be.

“Also your kid - I’m not sure which one of them it was, Milan maybe? - anyway, he tried drawing on my face while I was taking a nap. You should teach your kids some manners.”

Geri ignores the teasing comment. “So you haven’t told her about…?”

“No. I mean, it’s not that urgent yet and I wanted to discuss it with you first. Speaking of which - did you already meet Pilar?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”  
“I broke a mug. Accidentally.”

A pause. “Which one?”

“Umm..” Geri thinks back to the shattered pieces in a puddle of dark liquid. “A blue one I think?”

“Oh, okay, as long as it’s not the Real Madrid ones. I swear, if you break them on purpose..” It sounds like a threat. Geri ain’t having it.

He smirks. “Don’t give me ideas.”

 

-

 

Sergio looks at the red and blue stripes. He’s never liked them. They’re too loud. When he plays in white, every move gets engraved into the fabric. Every tackle, every fall - it all leaves a mark on the clean material, making it completely dirty and stained with grass and mud by the end of the match. It’s like a canvas - he can paint whatever he want on it. And that makes him feel free.

He looks around the empty dressing room - he’s woken up earlier that he ever did in his life, just to arrive to training first. It was actually Piqué’s idea - this way he could take a look around the training grounds, find out where everything is, before the others arrive. He’s been mentally preparing himself for this ever since he went to bed last night:

Barcelona.

“Oh, Geri!”

Sergio jumps, turning around quickly at the voice. Iniesta greets him with a wave and walks over to his own locker, dropping his bag down next to it. “You’re early today.”

Sergio immediately relaxes. Iniesta. Yeah, he can do this, they know each other, they talk a lot, their relationship is fantastic.

“Oh, yeah.” He smiles back and directs his gaze back to his own locker. “I, uh, couldn’t find my old watch so I came here early to check if I left it here.” It’s a lame excuse, he doesn’t even know if Piqué is the kind of guy who wears watches (he seems like more of a ‘I have a phone for that’ kind of guy) but Iniesta doesn’t seem to be suspecting anything.

“Hmmm. Well, did you find it?”

“Uh.” What if he asks him to show the watch? “No.” Sergio is a confident guy, he isn’t used to thinking so hard about everything he says. But now he seems to be insecure about every little thing he does, scared of doing something wrong. He doesn’t like it, at all. If it doesn’t pass soon he’ll go crazy.

But Iniesta only chuckles and Sergio finds himself once again sending a small prayer to the stars: thank god for Don Andrés. It’s easy with him, he reminds him of a bald, calmer version of Iker.

Sergio laughs too. “Yeah, huh?” He closes his locker and leans against it, looking at the other Spaniard. “Hey, Capi, wanna go out for a run? It’s a shame not to with such great weather.”

Iniesta throws him a questionable look. “If by ‘great’ you mean ‘bloody freezing’ then yes. It is. But hey,” He closes his locker and turns around to face him completely. “Why not? Let’s go.”

For once, Sergio seems to have made the right decision because by the time the others start arriving he and Iniesta are out on the training pitch, so he doesn’t have to face them straight away in the dressing room. And by them Sergio doesn’t mean the entire Barça squad minus Iniesta - contrary to popular belief, Sergio doesn’t have any problems with most of the people on the team. With some of them he even has a very close relationship with, after all, he does share the national team with a lot of them.

So no, it’s not the Barcelona players he’s avoiding. It’s three specific people - those he’s been playing years against but doesn’t know how to approach, who, funnily, turned out to be (according to Piqué) the three people he hangs out the most with among the squad.

The MSN.

After a while he starts thinking that maybe he can just keep avoiding them, what could happen? He’s a defender, they’re forwards. Period. They don’t have to train together. He could just stick to Iniesta and the rest of the nice Spaniards, couldn’t he? It can’t be that bad.

But the three seem to have different plans.

“Geri, catch!”

It takes Sergio a couple of seconds to register that the yell is directed at him but those few seconds are enough for the thrown item to reach him. So just as Sergio turns around to look who was yelling at him a ball collides with his face painfully and ricochets to the grass.

“Jesus _fuck_.” Sergio bends down, burying his face in his hands. It hurts like hell.

Neymar’s eyes widen in shock and he brings his hands up to cover his mouth. “Oh my god, dude, I’m so sorry.”

Messi shakes his head but doesn’t bother to cover up the amused smile on his lips.

Suárez is next to him, hollering with laughter (Sergio doesn’t like him already). “Man, what were you thinking?” He asks once the laughter dies down a bit.

“I don’t know, dude, I thought he will _catch_ it!” Neymar exclaims in an attempt to defend himself. “I said catch!”

“And I said don’t post that picture where you’re wearing those horrible hippie yoga pants.” Suárez retors pointedly. “But you still did!”

Neymar pouts. “You just don’t understand anything, it’s modern fashion.” He turns to Sergio for support. “Right, Geri?”

Sergio blinks. _Oh, me?_

In fact, he _did_ see the picture. Marcelo showed it to him on their bus ride to Barcelona while drowning in his own tears of laughter. Cristiano and Pepe almost had a mental break down when they saw it (“I can’t believe this guy got nominated for the ballon d’or!”). But the truth is that Sergio didn’t think it was all that bad, he actually kinda liked it.

“Um.” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s that bad?” He says honestly.

Suárez stares at him like he just killed his entire family in front of his eyes while Neymar, on the other hand, beams at him like he’s the only source of anything good in this world.

“See?” He points an accusing finger at the striker. “I told you! Even Geri said they’re cool.”

Suárez places one hand on his hip, throwing the other in the air in an exaggerated gesture. “Oh, please! That looks like something Sergio Ramos would wear.”

Sergio almost chokes on air. He looks down, covers his mouth with a hand and coughs, trying to not let his surprise show. Fortunately the three seem to think he’s trying to hide his laughter.

“Oi, guys.” Messi hits Suárez’s head with a ball lightly. “Let’s practice.”

Sergio takes a moment to study Messi ( _Leo_ , Piqué’s insistent voice echoes in his head). He’s been relatively quiet the whole time, but his presence wasn’t unfelt. He doesn’t make the impression of someone shy or cold, like people usually describe him.

This is probably the most natural he’s ever seen him. They’ve only ever met during matches, ceremonies and commercial events. But that wasn’t really him, it was the image the media and fans created him - Lionel Messi, Barcelona’s number 10, a god, an alien (Cris is the same, he bites and stings with the press but behind closed doors he’s one of the best people Sergio knows). This, however, this is different. He kind of understands now what Piqué meant by _Leo._ Because yeah, the person in front of him right now isn’t Messi. It’s Leo: the warmth in his smile, the fondness in the way he says ‘Geri’. Sergio feels like he’s somehow disturbing a private moment.

They decide to see who can do the most keepy uppies without the ball falling down. Neymar turns out to be way better than all of them and at a certain point, when the Brazilian gets dangerously close to fifty, Suárez starts trying different techniques to make him fail. He pulls his sleeves and shouts weird stuff in his ear but the younger forward simply refuses to go down despite his best efforts.

Sergio gets tired of it. “Hey, guys, look!” He widens his eyes comically and points at a spot far away behind Neymar’s back. “Ronaldinho!”

Neymar turns around so quick Sergio wonders how his head managed to stay in place. “Where?” There is no Ronaldinho. The ball is down.

Suárez doubles over laughing. “Good one!” He exclaims and raises both his hands up for a double high-five. Sergio may not like Suárez but turning down high-fives is simply against his codex so he grins and raises his hands as well.

Neymar groans. “Oh, come on, guys, this is cheating! Tell them, Leo!”

But to Sergio’s surprise, instead of siding with Neymar, Messi just throws his head back and laughs.

The Brazilian pouts. He turns around, searching for Iniesta and the others with his eyes. “Andrés, they’re bullying me again!”

After a couple of hours of training there’s one thing Sergio can say for sure: all the journalists who write those articles about MSN faking their friendship for the sake of attention and their “Barça image” must’ve never seen them interact in real life. All the inner jokes, hugs and teasing are friendly bordering on disgustingly obnoxious. The only good thing about the whole situation is that Piqué is meter ninety four, which makes it easy for Sergio to push Suárez to the grass and pull Neymar’s ridiculous bandana down every two minutes.

 

They join the rest of the squad and split into two groups: Sergio ends up being on the same team as Messi up against Suárez and Neymar. He tries looking at the bright side: this way, by the time he gets back to his own body he’ll know Barça’s inner tactics well enough to use it against them during El Clásico. _If_ he ever gets back, a small voice in his head corrects him. By he doesn’t feel like thinking about _that_. So he just keeps running, falling, tackling, passing.

“Feeling energetic today, huh?” Busquets asks him, elbowing him amicably.

Sergio gives a dry grin in return. “Yeah.. Sort of.” He feels like himself again when playing so he keeps forgetting. Piqué plays with less power, more technique, he reminds himself. Despite the potential in his height and size, the Catalan is more about intercepting and blocking when the ball is already on its way, while Sergio is more impulsive, more about tackling the opponent before he even reaches the net. He will have to get used to this.

 

They’re all sitting back inside the dressing room, some still in the shower, some already dressing up to leave, Neymar annoying Rafinha with some video on his phone. Practice hasn’t been that bad, or at least not nearly as bad as Sergio thought it would be. Nobody suspected anything and there was no secret culé code you had to say in order to get into the building.

“Sergio!”

“Yes?”

He knows he’s made a mistake the moment the word is out of his mouth. Sergio closes his eyes and inhales, mentally cursing himself. _Geri_ , he tells himself, _your name is Geri. Sergio is Busquets_.

Fortunately, Mascherano doesn’t seem to find anything weird in it (Piqué does dumb shit all the time, it’s probably not surprising, Sergio thinks, trying to make himself feel better) he just lets out a bark of laughter and says. “Are you Sergio? No. Then shut up, I was talking to him.” He pulls the towel off his head (what was he even trying to achieve there, he’s _bald_ ) and throws it onto the bench. “But hey, this applies to you as well actually.”

Sergio raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhhmm. Leo, Ney, Luis and I were gonna go to that barbecue place outside of the city today and I wanted to ask if you guys wanted to join too.”

“What kind of question is that even?” Busquets asks, suddenly appearing from behind Serio’s back. “Of course we do! Right, Geri?”

Sergio blinks up at him. Does he? A barbecue with Mascherano, Messi, Neymar, Busquets and Suárez. Yeah, he did say that training wasn’t _that bad_ , it doesn’t mean he _enjoyed_ it.

“Oh.” He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck and flashes a sheepish grin. “I would love to! But… Sorry, guys, me and Shaki just… Had some plans for tonight and..”

“Oh..” Mascherano gives him a knowing smile. “I see. Well..have fun.” He grabs Busquets with him and goes over to where Messi is standing next to Alba and Rakitić. Sergio could swear he saw Mascherano winking at him before he left. But maybe it’s just his imagination. Sergio shakes his head to throw the image out of his mind and focuses on tying his shoelaces.

 

Shakira isn’t home when he gets back and Sergio lets out a breath of relief. He sprints up the stairs to the bedroom, carelessly throws his duffel bag to the corner of the room. He lets his body drop onto the bed, spreads his arms and closes his eyes. He’s alone. Finally.

He takes a nap for around thirty minutes, then wakes up and hobbles down to the kitchen lazily because his hungry stomach is letting its displeasure be known way too loudly. He makes himself a sandwich, eats it, then makes another one.

After the third one he decides to go around around the house: he didn’t really have a chance to do it yesterday, and this morning he just ate breakfast and immediately left to training. He wanders around the living room, making grimaces each time he encounters something Barça-related (which happens pretty frequently) and occasionally picking things up and putting them back (or at least he hopes he does). He’s experimenting with the porch swings in the garden when he feels the phone buzzing in his pocket. He makes the horrible mistake of not checking the name before answering.

“Yes?”

“Hey, querido,” Shakira’s warm voice greets him. “I’ll probably have to stay a bit later at work today..I’m just calling to make sure you didn’t forget you have to pick Milan up soon.”

She says something more but Sergio doesn’t catch that. He blinks dumbly. _What?_

There’s silence on the other side of the line. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

Sergio blinks again. Then realisation sinks. “What? No!” His eyes grow wide and he takes a step back, as if Shakira could materialise out of thin air right now and hit him. “I’m on my way there already. I’m in the car right now!”

“Mmmm, sure.” She doesn’t sound that convinced. “Anyway, his lunch is on the table. Don’t forget or he’ll throw a fit again. Love you, bye.”

Sergio pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. He doesn’t know where he has to pick the kid up from. He doesn’t know when he has to do it. He doesn’t know anything.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He pulls up the contacts app and scrolls until he finds his own name. He clicks the call button, presses the phone to his ear and runs back inside the house to find the lunch box Shakira was talking about.

Piqué picks up on the third ring. “Dude, you gotta help me out, I--”

“No.” Sergio cuts him off sharply. “ _You_ gotta help _me_ out.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Piqué lowers his voice down to a hushed whisper. “Pepe told me to go shave Zidane’s head and I don’t even know if that was a joke, an insult or some kind of Madridista code I don’t understa--”

“Dude, your fucking kid.”

Silence. “Who, Milan or Sasha?” Piqué’s voice grows serious in a span of a few seconds. “What’s with him?”

“Shakira called and said I have to pick him up and I don’t know when or where or what or why or--”

Piqué cuts him off. “Okay, okay, I got it! Breathe, man.” Sergio does. “Now listen. I’ll send you the address, just throw it into the GPS and you’re good. I told you where the car keys are, right?”

“Yeah, I have it somewhere in my notes.”

“Cool. Just don’t forget his lunch box and agree with everything he says. And his car seat is- Wait, I don’t need to explain this to you, do I? You have two kids yourself.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Sergio nods. “I’m good. Where do I have to pick him up.”

There’s a rustle of movements as Piqué checks the clock. “You have about thirty more minutes, you’re good. It’s not that far.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Just don’t tell him Madrid is better than Barcelona accidentally.”

Sergio snorts. “Fine, if you would rather feed your son false information. You could as well just tell him the earth is flat or some shit.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

Sergio grins. “Alright, thanks, I’m off. Send me the adress.”

“Good.”

“And by the way, Piqué?”

“Yeah?”

“‘Go shave Zidane’s head’ is blanco slang for ‘it’s your turn to pay at the team meetup’. Good luck.”

 

Sergio leans against the closed car door and squints. There’s so many children and all of them look practically the same. He takes his phone, pulling out a picture of Milan Piqué, just to make sure he doesn’t get the wrong kid. That would be hard to explain to Shakira later. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to, the kid does all the job for him, running toward him as soon as he comes out of the gate.

“Papa!”

Sergio pulls on his best, most genuine smile. No matter what he may be feeling, it’s not the child’s fault that him and Piqué found themselves in...in the satiation they found themselves in, and he doesn’t deserve a cold treatment just because the stars decided to mess with them.

“Hey, how are you?” He squats down, ruffling Milan’s messy hair with one hand and taking the small backpack from his hands with the other. “Let’s get into the car?” He bites his lower lip, feeling a bit unsure. What is he supposed to say, how should he act?

Apparently, it’s not needed. The kid keeps babbling about how he played football with his friends today, and about the cake one of the other kids brought, about the new Power Rangers movie somebody’s older brother watched the other day. Sergio just hums in agreement, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Papa, papa!”

“Yeah?”

Milan pouts, thrusting his lower lip out in the most adorable way possible. “I’m hungry!”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sergio keeps his left hand on the wheel and reaches toward the lunch box with the other one. He hopes his reckless habits won’t affect the kid’s driving skills in the future. “Here you go!”

Milan claps his hands happily and takes the box from his hand. He turns it over in his hands and then his smile melts away. “I can’t open it.” He whines.

“Oh.” This time Sergio decides to not risk it further and does stop the car. He turns around, placing on hand on the back of the seat. “Give it to me, just a sec.” He squeezes the plastic locks on each side, making the box pop open. “Ah huh! Here it is.” He hands it back to Milan. “Enjoy.”

Milan beams at him gratefully and Sergio goes back to driving.

“Papa?” Milan asks after a while with a mouthful of applesauce.

“Yes?”

“Can Roberto come over tomorrow? I promised to show him my new game.”

“Umm..” Sergio has no idea who Roberto is. “We will ask you mum about that, alright?”

Milan nods his head in response and bites into his sandwich.

 

Sergio thought dealing with somebody else’s kids and having to hang out with Suárez and Mascherano would be the worst and scariest part of being Gerard Piqué. Well, he was wrong.

Milan turned out to be much easier to deal with than he originally supposed. He forced him to sit down and watch his favourite TV program with him but didn’t mind when Sergio pulled out his phone. After a while Milan started slowly falling asleep and that’s when Sergio picked him up and carried him to his room. Before leaving he took a moment to study the little sleeping face. How could it be that such an asshole like Piqué could have such a nice kid? Maybe it was the Shakira effect, after all.

So, the taking care of the kids part turned out to be surprisingly easy (it’s not like Sergio doesn’t know what he’s doing, he has two sons himself, doesn’t he?). What wasn’t easy is what came after that.

Sergio is in the kitchen, making himself coffee, when Shakira comes back. First he just hears the sound of the front door opening and closing, then she takes off her shoes, drops the bag and the keys on a table and walks over to the living room. Sergio peeks out of the kitchen to find her lying on the couch.

“Um. Hi?”

Shakira rolls over lazily, facing him. “Hi.” She drawls, smiling.

Sergio pauses, wondering what he should say. “How are you?” _Congrats, Ramos_ , he kicks himself mentally, _really a conversation between a husband and a wife_.

Shakira doesn’t seem to mind. “A bit tired,” She admits, dragging a hand through her hair. “But good.”

“Uh huh.” Silence. Sergio looks at the coffee mug in his hand. Then back up at Shakira. “Want some coffee?”

She furrows her eyebrows, an amused smile on her lips. “I don’t like coffee, silly.”

_Oh_. “Yeah.. Yeah, I know.” Sergio leans against the doorframe casually, turning the mug around in his hands. “It was a joke. I wasn’t going to share anyway. I made it for myself.”

Shakira laughs. “Oi, come here.” She stretches her arm out, gesturing for him to come closer with her hand.

Sergio hesitates. He walks over to the couch and sits down on it, keeping a space between them: not big enough to be suspicious but enough for it to not be uncomfortable.   
Shakira frowns. “Are Sasha and Milan both asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Amazing.”

Sergio looks at her. He knows what he should do, technically. Lie down next to her, or maybe keep sitting, place her head on his lip, play with her hair.. That’s what couples do. Except this is Shakira. And he is Sergio Ramos. And they aren’t a couple, have never been and will never be. And this feels wrong.

It reaches a whole new level of wrong when she sits up and wraps her arm around his shoulders. It’s close, it’s intimate and intimacy between a couple can only lead to one thing.

Sergio has to do something to get himself out of this situation. So he drops his phone.

“Fuck!” He bends down to pick it up from the floor and Shakira is forced to remove her arm from his shoulder. “Thank god it’s not brok-- Oh god, look at the time!” Sergio widens his eyes, using the best of his acting skills to make it look like he’s shocked. “I’m so sorry, amor.. I would love to but..” He grimaces apologetically. “I promised the guys to join them for barbecue today and..”

Shakira waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever, I don’t mind, I’m just gonna take a nap. Have fun.”

Sergio lets out a mental sigh of relief. He thanks her, jumps up, grabs his jacket and gets out of the house. Once he’s outside he pulls out his phone and dials Mascherano’s number.

“Geri?”

“Yeah. Dude, say, is the barbecue offer still up?”

 

-

 

Geri’s day has been...eventful. Well, technically, it was like any regular day. He woke up, ate breakfast, drove to training.. Except everything seemed to be upside down.

It started the first seconds of the morning. The moment he opened his eyes Ramos’ kid was all over his face, jumping on the bed and yelling in the excitement. At first he didn’t even register it was Sergio Junior and not Milan, the events of yesterday came crushing on him only after he rolled over and met Pilar’s sleepy face.

“Papa, papa!”

Geri rubs his eyes, trying to get the sleep out of his head. His mind has to be clear and focused to deal with this. “Yes, yes, what is it?” He slurs sleepily.

Junior starts babbling excitedly about something. Some game, some goal.. It takes Geri a while he’s talking about the goal Ramos scored during El Clásico.

“Oh. Um.” He blinks a few times. When nothing good comes to his mind he glances to his right, looking at Pilar for support.

Pilar chuckles in amusement. “He was very excited when you dedicated that goal to him.”

Geri nods dumbly. He figures he should say something so he reaches his hand to ruffle the kid’s hair. “Yeah, that goal was for you.” It’s not a lot but it seems to be enough for the kid, who beams at him like he’s just won a lottery and keeps babbling about something Geri doesn’t understand.

Pilar rolls her eyes. “Go back to bed, sleepyhead.” She says fondly, hitting him on the head gently. She gets up, throws a light blue sweater over her pajamas and gestures for Junior to take her hand. “Let’s go, papa is tired, let him sleep a bit.” Before leaving she turns around to look at him. “I said sleep but I’m expecting you downstairs for breakfast in twenty minutes, yeah?”

All Geri can do is nod and drop his head back on the pillow. He stares at the white ( _white_ ) ceiling and mentally curses Ramos for naming his son Sergio Ramos Junior. Like he needs any more Sergio Ramos in his life. There’s enough as it already is.

 

Originally, his plan was to arrive early to training so he can avoid greeting and talking with everyone in the dressing room. But Junior turns out to be a horribly slow eater and later, on his way to the training facility, he confuses the turns a few times and in the end he ends up arriving just when most of the teammates are in the dressing room, getting ready for practice.

When he walk inside Marcelo is busy loudly arguing with Pepe about something but the moment he notices him he straightens up and sends a salute his way. “Aye, capitán!”

Pepe uses the moment to steal his phone away.

“No!” Marcelo yells, trying to snatch it back. “You asshole, give it back!”

Geri decides to not interfere. He sticks to James, Kroos and Modrić because the two seem calm and quiet enough, and also not as obnoxious as the rest of the squad. He kind of hopes he can just keep this tactic through the entire training session, staying as far away as he can form the likes or Ronaldo, Pepe and Carvajal, but he isn’t so lucky.

“Sergio, Sergio!” Carvajal elbows him in the side painfully, pointing at Ronaldo. “Watch out, La Maquina is coming!”

Ronaldo raises his eyebrows playfully, playing with the ball between his feet. “Oh, want a one on one?”

Carvajal smirks. “Why a one on one? Let’s go full four on four.”

Ronaldo kicks the ball up into the air, catching it with his hand. “It’s a challenge.”

And before Geri knows what’s going on he finds himself in the middle of a cruel blanco fight (okay, he’s exaggerating, they’re just training, but still).

Ronaldo dribbles past Nacho but then Carvajal blocks him so he’s forced to send the ball back to Marcelo. The Brazilian receives it, passing to Isco, who catches the pass with his head. He shoots a cross and Ronaldo and Nacho both stumble back to catch it and Ronaldo ends up bumping into Marcelo.

“Ayyy, Cris!” Marcelo grabs his ankle dramatically and falls to the ground. “You stepped on my foot!”

Carvajal shakes his head. “Cristiano, look what you’ve done, you broke his leg!”

Ronaldo places a hand on his chest, an indignant expression on his face. “Me?”

Pepe joins in the teasing, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You left us without a left back.”

“Yeah,” Carvajal goes on. “How are we gonna win the treble this year without Marcelo?”

Geri coughs to hide his laughter at the mention of the treble. Madrid? The treble? Puh-lease! Although maybe it was all part of the joke too, they can’t be that dumb.

Marcelo laughs from where he’s lying on the grass, nudging Ronaldo’s leg with his foot. “Stop bullying him, guys.”

Ronaldo gives Carvajal and Pepe a smug smirk. “See?”

“Oi, really, stop defending him, Marcelo!” Carvajal picks up the ball and throws it at Ronaldo’s head, who ducks away to avoid the hit.

“Hey!” He points an accusing finger at the Spaniard, but there’s a smile on his face and he’s laughing. “Stop it, you!” When Carvajal picks up the ball, threatening to throw it again he runs away, hiding behind Geri. Ronaldo wraps one arm around his shoulder, pointing the other at Carvajal and Pepe. “They’re being mean to me.”

Pepe doubles over laughing.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Carvajal turns to look at Geri. “You’re the captain, you aren’t allowed to pick favorites in fights.”

Geri doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Um. Yeah, uh.. Cris. You heard them.” He unwraps the other’s arm from his shoulder and gives his shoulder a light push. “Go away.”

Ronaldo laughs. His lips are pulled into a wide smile and there are wrinkles around his eyes: it’s not the million dollar look-at-me smile he gives to the press and not the cocky watch-me smirk Geri often witnesses during games. He looks genuinely happy and the sight is highly disturbing. It makes it feel almost like they’re _friends_ or something and Geri wants to bury his head in the grass and not look at anybody until training is over.

But overall, except for some awkward interaction here and there, he thinks he’s actually doing a pretty good job at being Ramos. It shouldn’t be hard, now, should it? Ramos doesn’t look like a very complicated guy. Just yell, get a lot of cards, fight everyone and you’re good. There are still a couple of blanco traditions he will have to get used to, but that’s just a matter of time.

“Squad photo!” Marcelo yells suddenly, pointing at one of the camera guys. And before Geri knows what’s going on everybody is there, looking like they’re participating in The Most Ridiculous Pose competition. Ronaldo is on the ground, one leg stretched along the grass, one up in the air. Marcelo is next to him, both fists in the air, one foot resting on Ronaldo’s shoulder. Carvajal gets down on one knee, throwing his fist forward. Nothing makes sense.

It’s over just as fast as it began. A few seconds later Marelo is hopping over to the camera guy, asking him to show the picture.

“Oh god, guys, look at this.” Nacho laughs.

“Send it to me,” Ronaldo joins in. “I’m gonna post it in my instagram.”

“Yo, Sergio, man, did you decide to pull a Toni?” Carvajal asks with a laugh, elbowing him lightly. “You look so awkward.”

Geri lets out a weak laugh. “Yeah, I… Ha ha.”

 

When practice is over they all go to some restaurant not far away from the training grounds. Geri doesn’t want to go, he wants to go home, lie in bed until he falls asleep and wake up to find out that it was all just a nightmare. But he can’t do that, apparently. Ramos turns out to be a very important persona in these meetups so he doesn’t really have that much choice. It’s all pretty awkward (for him at least. The others seem like nothing is bothering them).

“A toast!” Carvajal stands up, clapping his hands to get the others’ attention. Then, for some reason, like everything that has happened until now wasn’t enough, he looks at Geri. “Sergio, how about you do it this time?”

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence. “Oh, um, me? Yeah, sure. I mean, why not.” What does he have to do? Stand up and say Hala Madrid? “I don’t mind. Uh. Yeah. Um- thanks! Let’s do this, yes.” It’s like his mind blacks out, like he hasn’t done this a million times with Leo and Ney, with Cesc and Busi, with the whole Barça squad for fuck’s sake. “Alright..” He stands up slowly, a glass in his hand, an entire table full of Madridistas in front of him. They’re all staring at him and for a moment Geri wonders if they _know_ , if Ramos told them, if it was all his plan. “Uhm.” He coughs, not as much for clearing his throat as for distracting himself from his train of thoughts.

“Well.. So! We’re doing really well until now.” _Really well for a bunch of losers like Real Madrid_ . “And hopefully we’ll keep this up.” _Yeah, sure._ “So.. This is for the Copa, the Club World Cup, the Liga, the Champions and all the trophies that are yet to come.” _In you dreams_ . “Hala Madrid!” _Fuck this shit_.

The whole table cheers happily, each returning to the conversations they were having before, giving Geri the chance to sink back into the chair and let the fact that he’s just said “Hala Madrid” to a room full of blancos sink in. He’ll need more than one glass of wine.

 

It does get better after a couple of shots. In fact, it gets so much better that at a certain point Geri finds himself between Pepe and Coentrao of all people, all three of them absolutely wasted, talking about cars.

“Cris has a thing for sports cars. But I think they’re ugly.” Coentrao is telling them. He’s slurring so bad Geri can barely make out the words. He’s pretty sure half of it is Portuguese anyway. “I like the..” He frowns. “You know, the one, the big one.”

“Limousine?” Pepe prompts.

Coentrao shakes his head. “No, no. It starts with a J, I think. You know, the one that’s written on Juventus’ kit.”

Pepe frowns. “Well, isn’t that Limousine?”

Geri just hums in response to everything they say.

At a certain point he becomes aware of Ronaldo and Marcelo standing next to them, discussing something in rapid Portuguese. Geri closes his eyes. His head is hurting. He isn’t sure how much time passes but by the moment he opens his eyes they’re all gone, except for Ronaldo who’s standing nearby, going through something on his phone.

“Hm?” Geri rubs his eye with the back of his hand. “Where are the bald and the ugly?”

Ronaldo snorts, looking up from the phone. “Marcelo volunteered to drive them back.”

Geri hums, just because talking seems to require too much energy. “Yeah, I’m.. Probably gonna get going too.” He tries to stand up but then Ronaldo’s hand is on his chest, stopping him. He looks up at the Portuguese in annoyance. What’s his problem?

Ronaldo is looking at him like he’s crazy. “You’re gonna drive.. In _this_ state?”

Geri thinks. Then shrugs. “Yeah.”

The other rolls his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sergio. Each time it’s the same thing.” He shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and stretches out a hand to pull him up to his feet. “Leave your car here, you’ll get it tomorrow. I’ll drive you.”

Ronaldo wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him to his car, complaining the whole way about how clumsy and heavy he is and about how he deserves better friends than this. Geri wants to snap and ask why the fuck he’s doing this then, but he’s way too tired and drunk to do that.

He tries to sleep in the car a bit on their way to Ramos’ house but Ronaldo turns on some obnoxiously loud music and Geri can’t manage to fall asleep no matter how hard he tries. Judging by the satisfied smirk he catches in the rear mirror, Geri is convinced the asshole is doing it on purpose.

After an hour (or maybe it was twenty minutes?) they finally arrive to Ramos’ house. Geri is dying to go there and sleep his ass off but when he tries to open the car door it’s locked. “Yo, dude. What the fuck?”

“Sergio.” Ronaldo turns the car engine off and turns to look at Geri. “Look.”

“Can you just open the goddamn-”

“ _No._ ” Ronaldo cuts him off sharply, leaving no room for discussion. “You’ll sit here and you’ll listen to what I have to say, got it?”

Geri blinks. Well, it seems like he has no choice, does he? He can’t really _fight_ him, not in this state anyway.

Fortunately, Ronaldo gets straight to the point. “This isn’t like you.” He states. “To get this drunk. Not in these circumstances, anyway.” There’s annoyance and anger in his eyes but now, if he looks really hard, Geri thinks he can distinguish some worry as well. Maybe. “I’ve only seen you like this after big losses.. Everything’s okay? Something happened?”

Geri looks at him. No, he wants to say, nothing is okay. Yes, something happened. This isn’t me. I’m not supposed to be here. I just said “Hala Madrid” only an hour or so ago. I don’t like this.

“Look,” Ronaldo goes on. “If you’re stressing about the season.. Don’t. We don’t have to win everything.” He lets out a laugh. “I know this sounds funny coming from me, but.. I always thought my biggest goal was to win the World Cup. But this year we won the Euros and.. It’s enough, you know? For me, for Portugal. So Sergio, if you--”

“I’m not.”

Ronaldo blinks. “What?”

“I’m not Sergio. I’m not Ramos.” Geri isn’t sure what pushed him to blurt it. Maybe the alcohol, maybe the honesty in Ronaldo’s voice that almost made him feel like he could _trust_ him (probably the alcohol, though). “It’s me. Gerard Piqué.”

Ronaldo stares at him. For a moment Geri lets himself believe that he could help him, maybe he knows what to do..but then Ronaldo throws his head back and laughs.

“Oh, god, Sergio.” He sighs. “I’m having a heart to heart conversation here with you, and you..” He shakes his head, clearly amused. “It’s cute, though, you know?” He tilts his head, watching him with a smirk Geri can’t quite read. “How even when you’re drunk you can’t stop thinking about him.”

It takes Geri a few seconds to understand what the other meant. “What? Oh, fuck off.”

Ronaldo laughs again. “So. You won’t tell me anything, hmm?”

Geri would love to. There’s a lot he needs to get off his chest. But maybe later, because right now.. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Ronaldo’s face goes from amused to angry-horrified in a span of a second. “What? Jesus christ, Sergio, I swear if you throw up in my car..” He reaches over Geri to unlock the door quickly and pushes it open. “Get out of here, do you have any idea how much this thing costed me?”

Geri doesn’t have to be told twice. He stumbles out of the car, closes the door and leans against it. “Well,” Geri clears his throat. “Um. Thanks? I guess. Yeah.” He looks at Ronaldo. When a moment passes and the other doesn’t just get into the car and drive away Geri adds carefully. “You can go away now.”

Ronaldo raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think so.”

Geri frowns. “And that is...why, exactly?”

The Portuguese snorts. “Oh, you think you can walk?”

Geri scoffs. “Of course, I can walk, what kind of question is--” The moment he lets go of the car and takes a step toward the house his head starts spinning and he’s forced to go back, leaning on the car door to maintain balance.

Ronaldo walks over to him, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face like he’s just won the lottery. “So,” He drawls teasingly. “Should I help you or should I…?”

Geri groans. “Fine. You won. Happy?”

For the second time this evening Geri finds himself stumbling clumsily like there’s no gravity anymore, led by Cristiano Ronaldo who keeps muttering “See, this is why I don’t drink”, “Why am I even friends with you” and “You so owe me for this”. When they reach the door Geri realises that he forgot the keys in his car and they have to knock on the door and yell until Pilar comes down to open it for them.

“Oh god, not again.” She rolls her eyes the moment she sees them. “There wasn’t even a match today.”

Ronaldo shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know what happened. Who knows, maybe it’s just Fábio.”

He turns to leave but Geri stops him. “Wait.”

The Portuguese raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You’re…” Geri frowns in concentration, trying to turn the mess inside his head into words. “You’re not such a bad guy.”

Ronaldo tries to keep a straight face but Geri doesn’t miss the amused tint to his voice. “Oh, yeah? Why, thank you, Sergio.”

“Mmhm.”

 

-

 

Their first matches go surprisingly smoothly. Before the game against Mönchengladbach Sergio calls Piqué.

“What are you doing, idiot, the game starts in a few minu--”

“That’s why I’m calling!” Sergio interrupts him. “Dude, there’s no way I can do this.”

“It’s too late for this bulshit, Ramos, get your shit together and--”

“No, you don’t understand!” Sergio glances back, making sure that nobody is listening. “You can’t let me do this.” He goes on in a hushed voice. “I’ve been Barcelona’s rival for over a decade and you want me to play for you? As soon as I’m out on the pitch my instincts are gonna kick in and I’ll end up scoring an own goal or something, I’m blanco by nature, I can’t control this.”

“Geri!”

Sergio covers the phone with his hand. “Just a sec, I lost my boot!”

“Is that Lucho?” Piqué asks.

“How did you-- Whatever, hurry up!”

“Of course!” Sergio brings the phone back to his ear. “Anyway, as I was saying.”

“Dude, no.” Piqué cuts him off. “If you don’t go out there and do you job I’m gonna score an own goal during the Club World Cup final, get a red card and break Ronaldo’s knee on my way off the field.”

Sergio’s eyes widen. “You don’t mean that.” He whispers.

“Wanna find out?”

A pause. “No.”

“Gerard Piqué, I swear to all the gods up there if you don’t--”

“I’m coming!” Sergio yells back before returning to the phone. “Okay, I gotta go or your coach will kill me.”

“Yeah, I can hear it.”

“Bye, wish yourself luck.” He hangs up, shoves it into his bag carelessly and sprints to the tunnel.

 

The moment he’s on the pitch all the nervousness and doubt goes away as if it’s never been there to begin with. There are no colours, no badges, no Madrid and Barcelona. There’s only the feeling of fresh grass under his feet, the cheers of the fans, the cold wind on his skin. Football is football, on the street and in the stadium, from Rio to London, the game that brings people together, the game that makes you feel alive. And Sergio Ramos loves football.

So the moment the whistle is blown he doesn’t hesitate. He jumps, he tackles, he passes. He makes protecting the net his goal, not the badge. Because the badge may be different but the net is always the same, the shouts of the goalie behind you, the determination in the eyes of the forward in front of you and the satisfaction in ruining his plans. It fills Sergio with a rush of emotions he will never get tired of feeling and for the first time since that hellish morning he woke up in a bed he couldn’t recognise, Sergio feels like he can fully breathe.

When Messi scores he doesn’t exactly feel _delighted_ but the feeling is certainly more positive than negative. A goal is still a goal and if Sergio has to play for Barcelona now he’ll try to be happy, at least because he doesn’t like losing.

Messi’s goal is followed by a hattrick from Turan. Sergio would be a liar if he said he wasn’t impressed. When the ref blows the final whistle he skips over to where Turan is talking with Suárez.

“Dude!” He shouts, placing his hands on the midfielder’s shoulders and jumping up. It’s not the smartest thing to do considering their height difference and he almost makes both of them collapse to the ground. “Shit, fuck, sorry man!”

Suárez laughs loudly. Turan curses, then looks up and grins at them.

“That was amazing.” Sergio says honestly, raising a hand for a high-five, to which Turan responds more than willingly. “I mean it.”

Sergio feels a hand on his shoulder. When he turns around he’s met with Messi’s shorter figure.

“Geeeri, what about me?” He whines jokingly.

Sergio laughs. “You too, little guy.”

Messi laughs. “What did you just call me?”

Sergio wraps an arm around him and pulls him into a side-hug. He’s never considered himself short but this is just a whole different level of tall and Sergio has to admit, he’s really enjoying it. Messi doesn’t protest, he wraps an arm around his waist in return, leaning on him with his whole body weight and raises his free hand to cover a yawn.

Sergio glances down at the Argentine. “Tired, Leo?”

Messi shakes his head, trying to stifle another yawn at the same time. “Maybe a bit.”

 

“Yo, Geri!”

Sergio stops drying his hair for a moment and peeks from under the towel. “Yeah?”

“Can I borrow your phone for a sec?” Alba asks. “I need to make a call and my battery died.”

“Yeah, sure thing, dude. No problem. It’s in my bag, you can take it.” Sergio goes back to drying his hair. When he’s done he throws it aside and pulls on a t shirt. He’s about to put on his sneakers when Alba speaks up again.

“Woah, man, why is there…” He falls silent.

“What?” Sergio looks up. “Why is there what?”

Alba looks up, a mischievous grin on his lips. “Guys… Come have a look at this.”

Sergio frowns. He doesn’t like where it’s going. “Come look at _what?_ ” He tries again.

Suddenly Neymar is all over the place, snatching the phone away from his grip and getting on the bench so Alba can’t take it back.

“Oh my..” He covers his mouth with a hand, eyes wide in shock. “Guys, look at this!”

Sergio groans. He has no idea what Piqué has in his phone that got Neymar and Alba so excited but he has no energy to deal with it. “Give it back.”

But then Neymar turns the screen around, letting the rest of the room take a look at it too. It’s the history of his calls.

“Dude.” Neymar asks, looking him in the eyes. “Am I imagining stuff or does it say Sergio Ramos, here on top of the list?”

Sergio swallows. Well, he didn’t think this through.

“No way.” Suárez skips over to where Neymar is standing, grabbing the phone to take a look as well. “Guys!” He lets out a bark of laughter, gaping at the screen in disbelief. “It really does! It says Sergio Ramos! And look at the time too, it was just before the match!”

Sergio feels everybody’s eyes on him. They’re waiting for answers. “I..” He blinks, trying to not lose his cool. _Stay calm, Sergio, stay calm_. “I clicked it accidentally.”

Neymar places a hand on his hip. He clearly isn’t buying it. “Oh yeah, you--” He trails off as realisation hits him. “Wait!” He points a finger at Sergio. “So _that’s_ who you talking to before the match! I--”

There are a few gasps around the room. Messi looks amused, Mascherano rolls his eyes, Iniesta is acting like he couldn’t care less about what’s happening.

“This.. This isn’t what it looks like.” Sergio tries to think of an excuse. “I.. We made a bet, after the clásico, we made a bet, who would score in our-”

The Brazilian doesn’t let him finish. “Sure thing. So I guess you’ve been discussing the bet twenty times a day these past two days.” He scrolls down, revealing the entire history of the calls.

Sergio throws his arms up in the air. “Fine, think whatever you want.”

Neymar and Suárez take it a sign of defeat and start yelling something in excitement. Mascherano has to hit them both with a towel to make them calm down. Alba and Busquets are sending curious glances his way, Turan and Iniesta seem to not be paying attention at all. Neymar to drag Rafinha into the mess but he refuses to participate in it.

“Hey,” Sergio can feel someone nudging his foot. He opens his eyes. It’s Messi. He’s smiling softly at him. “You know how they are. They’re just teasing you.”

Sergio lets out a groan that comes out more as a whine. “Yeah, of course.”

Messi places a hand on his knee, squeezing it lightly. “Look, if you and Ramos wanna talk to each other..that’s okay. That’s great, even. It will only do good to the national team, no?”

Sergio looks at him. Messi means well by it. But how does one explain to a person he barely even knows that yes, they’re talking, but not because they’re now “friends” or some shit, but because they have no choice. He’s not Piqué. He’s not Geri. He’s not sure who he is anymore. He just spent ninety minutes on the pitch wearing blaugrana, celebrating goals scored by Lionel Messi and Arda Turan. Neither of them actually knows how long it will last or if it will ever end at all. It’s all kind of freaking him out.

“Yeah.. Yeah, Leo, you’re right.”

 

When Sergio comes home he’s forced to face another problem the two of them have been ignoring for way too long. The problem has pretty blonde hair, an angry face and a name: Shakira.

In his defence, she wasn’t supposed to be home so soon. Sergio’s plan was to come home early, eat and fall asleep before Shakira returns from work. Then wake up before her and leave to training. Simple, no? Except it isn’t.

When he enters the bedroom, ready to finally rest after a long day, he finds Shakira lying on the bed, reading a book. The moment she feels his presence she looks up from whatever she’s reading, puts the book aside and smiles. “Congrats on the win, how are you?”

“Uh.” At first Sergio is too surprised to say anything. He recovers quickly, though, pulling his lips into (what he hopes is) a convincing smile. “I’m good, how are you?” He walks over to the nightstand to plug his phone into the charger, all the while avoiding eye contact. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now? Not that I mind!” He adds quickly with a small laugh.

He can see Shakira moving closer from the corner of his eye. “I decided to leave earlier today. We didn’t have a chance to spend that much time lately so I thought we could..” She trails off with a smirk. She doesn’t have to finish the sentence, Sergio knows. Of course Sergio knows, he isn’t a fucking idiot after all.

But this is different, it really is. It’s one thing playing for Barcelona. It’s one thing hanging out with Messi and Suárez. It’s one thing taking care of Milan and Sasha. But this? This is completely different. It’s not even about his own feelings right now. What about Piqué? They might've switched bodies but they are still themselves. How would Sergio feel if Piqué slept with his wife, with Pilar? And more importantly, what about Shakira herself? She doesn’t _know_ , she thinks this is Piqué. Sergio feels sick just thinking about it.

“I.. I’m sorry, I-” He makes a series of awkward hand gestures with his hands. “I’m a bit tired.. Maybe some other day.” He lets out a weak laugh. It doesn’t sound convincing. He simply can’t keep acting like everything is normal.

Shakira’s smile disappears. “Fine.” She says quietly coldly. She runs a hand through her hair and stands up. “I’ll go take a shower.” Just as Sergio is about to sigh in relief and collapse into bed she turns around suddenly. “Actually, no. It’s not fine.”

Sergio whines. “Shaki, please, I’m really tired, I don’t--”

“This isn’t about sex, Geri!” She exclaims in frustration. “You’ve been avoiding me for days already! I can’t recognise you anymore. You use every possible excuse to leave the house, you don’t talk to me, you don’t tell me how your day was, don’t ask me about mine..” She clutches her hair, then lets it go and lets her hand drop down. The anger is suddenly gone and she just sounds upset. “You know, I’ve never thought I would say this but.. I can’t help but think that you may be cheating on me..”

Sergio wants to stab his eyes out. How did he end up like this? He buries his face in his hands and rubs his eyes. “Look.” He straightens up, finally gathering the courage to look her in the eyes. “This isn’t it. I promise. I can’t tell you but I promise it’s not that.”

“You can’t tell me?” Shakira repeats in disbelief and now the anger is back in her voice. “You can’t tell me? That’s the problem, Gerard. What is it that you can’t tell me? You can tell me _anything_.”

Sergio exhales sharply. “Fine.” This is way too big for him. The worst part is that he has nobody to be angry at for this. He can’t blame Shakira, it’s not her fault. But it’s also not Piqué’s fault. He can’t even blame himself. “You know what? Fine.” He stands up, grabbing his phone and the car keys from the nightstand. “Get dressed, I want to show you something.”

 

The drive to Madrid is quiet, neither of them says anything. Shakira puts on her earphones and looks away, out of the window. Sergio doesn’t mind, he’s grateful she doesn’t pressure him.

There’s little to no traffic so they arrive to Madrid in under five hours. It’s pretty dark by the time they reach Sergio’s house.

Sergio turns off the car engine and leans back in his seat. “We’re here.”

Shakira pulls out her earphones and glances around. She furrows her eyebrows. “What is this place, Geri?”

“You’ll see.” Sergio opens the door and gets out of the car. “Let’s go.”

“No, wait a minute. Whose house is this? Where are we? Isn’t this Madrid?” She sounds confused and a bit irritated. Sergio turns around to look at her.

“You’ll find out soon.” He promises. “I’m sorry, there’s just really no easy way to explain. You have to see it.”

 

-

 

Geri is in the middle of making tea when the doorbell rings. He knows for sure Pilar is upstairs so there’s no way it could be her. The only person he can think of is one of Ramos’ teammates. For a moment he considers the possibility of just telling whoever it is to fuck off, but fortunately he’s in too much of a good mood for that. He spent the entire day stressing over Barcelona’s match but in the end it turned out he was stressing for nothing. Ramos’ performance was good, no different from how he usually performs when he plays for Madrid. The thought of it is calming, Geri could even say he’s feeling less nervous about his own game with Madrid tomorrow. So he pulls on his best smile and walks over to open the door, holding an empty cup of tea in his hand.

“Yes! How may I help…” He trails off when he notices who is it. “....you.” He shifts his weight from one leg to another, leaning against the doorframe and frowns. “Ramos what the fuck?”

Ramos grabs the cup from his hand and pushes past him into the house. “I can’t do this anymore, dude. Call Pilar, we need to talk.” He opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of champagne Geri didn’t even know was there and walks over to the couch.

Geri wants to ask him a lot of things but in the end what comes out is: “Are you sure you want to drink champagne from a tea cup?”

Ramos shrugs. “Cris drinks tea from champagne glasses, why can’t I do the opposite?”

Geri figures it makes sense, somehow.

He places a hand on Shaki’s shoulder and squeezes it lightly. He misses her beyond what words can describe. “Wait a sec, I’ll call Pilar.”

 

It’s not easy. It’s not easy to explain it and it’s even harder to comprehend it but after some time, they manage to come to a mutual understanding. Geri knows things about Shakira only he can possibly know and same goes for Ramos and Pilar. So it’s only natural that after a while the two women realise that it is, indeed, serious.

After a long, dead silence that seems to never end Shakira speaks up first. “Oh my god.” She whispers, as if the realisation finally hit her. She covers her mouth with her hands, staring at the wall between Geri and Pilar, at nothing in particular. “Oh my god.” She says again. She turns to look at Ramos, her expression shocked bordering on horrified. She stares at him for a while. “So.. You’re really Sergio Ramos?”

Ramos averts his eyes, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Yeah.” He drawls carefully, looking up to meet her gaze, almost shyly.

Shakira brings a hand to her mouth, looks away, then frowns and returns her gaze to him. “I can’t believe I almost kissed you.” She says suddenly. Ramos looks like he would rather die. Shakira, meanwhile, turns to Pilar. “God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“No!” The other exclaims. “I didn’t know myself, I-- Wow. This is just all so..” She trails off, making a vague gesture in the air. “Wow I’m speechless.”

Shakira then finally meets Geri’s eyes. “God, Geri, I..” She stands up and moves over to the free spot next to him. “How are you doing?” She asks, placing a hand on his back. “Madrid play tomorrow, don’t they? What are you guys gonna do about all of this?”

Ramos huffs. He leans back against the couch and crosses his arms behind his head. “Well, I mean, I already had to play for Barça today so he’s probably gonna do the same thing. It’s not like we have much of a choice, do we?”

Shakira nods slowly. “Yeah.. Makes sense.” She makes a movement forward to embrace him but pulls her hand back at the last second. “Um.” She turns to Ramos again. “Uh, Sergio.. Do you mind if I, uh, hug you? I mean, Geri, but since he’s you now I-- Oh god, this is awkward.”

“Oh, no, it’ fine, really.” Ramos throws his arms up in the air. “I don’t mind. You can do whatever you want. Just don’t do any weird shit to my hair.” He adds quickly.

Suddenly Pilar bursts out laughing. “Jesus!” She exclaims. “And I thought that my biggest problem about marrying a footballer will be the constant traveling and the injuries.”

 

It feels strangely freeing, now that Shakira and Pilar know. One problem less to worry about, Geri guesses.

After Ramos and Shakira leave and head back to Barcelona Pilar approaches him.

“Look, we don’t know each other at all but.. Since we’re both stuck in,” She makes an abstract gesture with her hand. “..this situation, if you ever need any help - I’m here.”

Geri nods. “Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it.” He points upstairs. “Guess it will be better if I move to the guest room then?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” She lets out a light laugh. “Will save us both some awkward moments.”

 

Matchday arrives. Ramos calls him thirty minutes before the game, giving him instructions. “This is Dortmund, we always had trouble playing the Germans. The guy with the haircut, Auba, don’t let Reus pass to him, no matter what happens. Don’t touch the left wing-back, Marcelo will be fine, but our right wing is having problems right now. Don’t fall back too far if their midfield tries to--”

“Man, calm the fuck down, stop panicking, I got it.” Geri cuts him off sharply. “Y’all are gonna be fine.”

He can practically hear Ramos frowning on the other side of the line. “I’m not _panicking_ , you big log. I’m _worrying_ , that’s what a good captain does. I know we’re gonna be fine, we’re Real Madrid. I may be wearing blaugrana now but my heart will always be white as the whipped cream on a German apple p--”

Geri hangs up. Ramos is not good with poetry, he should stick to football.

 

He goes into the tunnel, standing between Carvajal and Marcelo.

“Um.” Marcelo turns around, looking at him with a funny expression on his face. “Good morning, Sergio? Did you sleep well tonight?”

Geri raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” He tries. “Thank you?”

Marcelo keeps watching him. “Well?” He says after a while and points behind his back with his thumb.

Geri follows his thumb in the direction he’s pointing at. The head of the line, where Keylor is standing, chatting with one of the Dortmund players.

“ _Oh_.” It dawns on him suddenly that as the captain he’s supposed to be standing at the start of the line-up, not just wherever he wants.

Marcelo laughs loudly and slaps him on the shoulder. “‘Oh’ indeed. Don’t fall asleep on the pitch!” He calls after him teasingly when Geri rushes over to stand in front of Keylor. One of the refs turns to look at him.

“Everyone ready?”

Geri nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The match starts out well. Benzema scores, giving them the lead in the first half and then goes for a brace after halftime. But then Aubameyang scores mere seven minutes after Benzema's second goals. It wouldn't have been as bad if it wasn't followed by an equaliser from Reus in the very last minutes of the game. Geri can't say he's feeling _sad_ about it, but he's certainly not happy. The feeling of not having been able to stop the opponent from scoring is never a good one.

Ronaldo is sitting next to him in the dressing room, hair damp after the shower, staring at a wall aimlessly. He’s sulking. Leo does the same when he feels like he didn’t do his best, but he does it quietly, unnoticeably. Geri can tell he is only because they’ve been playing together since childhood. Ronaldo, on the other hand, is much more obvious about it. Geri feels like he could easily make lights flicker and a storm start with the dark, negative atmosphere around him.

Geri decides to be a good teammate. He moves closer, wondering if Ronaldo will hit him if he tries to pat him on the back. He looks honestly terrifying so Geri decides against it. “Uh. Man, you good?”

Ronaldo exhales slowly. “Good? Am I good?” He still won’t look at him directly, keeps staring at the wall. “We finished second in our group. Since when does Madrid settle for anything but best? We are supposed to be the kings of the CL, Sergio.” He turns to look at him, voice growing louder as he keeps speaking. “How are we going to beat teams like Bayern or Barcelona if we can’t even beat Dortmund when we need to? We barely survived the Clásico, Sergio! We would’ve lost if you didn’t score that last-minute header.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration and keeps speaking. “This whole ‘unbeatable run’ thing is cool, but it’s just a mask to hide how bad we’ve been actually playing lately. We need to get our shit together!”

There’s a long silence after that. Geri feels a bit annoyed, he doesn’t know why he bothered asking. He’s about to mumble a few words of fake consolation and leave to take a shower himself but then Ronaldo speaks up again. “ _I_ need to get my shit together and start scoring again.”

Geri looks at him. He doesn’t exactly _understand_ it himself, but at the same time he does. Leo is the same. But with Leo it’s easier. When Leo is sulking after a bad match Geri just hugs him and then they go to Neymar’s place, play shooter games, eat chips and watch South American telenovelas the entire evening. He really doubts it will work with Ronaldo. But he really doesn’t know anything else so he decides to try anyway.

“Um.” Geri spreads his arms out hesitantly, watching the other. “Do you maybe want. A hug?”

Ronaldo’s frown goes from angry and frustrated to a confused one. “A what?”

“A hug.”

Ronaldo studies him, scans his whole body before returning to look at his eyes. Geri can’t tell if he’s even more angry or just amused. “A hug.” He repeats. “Who do you think I am? Messi?”

Geri almost chokes. If not for the semi-amused smirk on Ronaldo’s face he could swear it was on purpose (does Ronaldo know? Or is he just being paranoid?). Either way, the forward looks like he’s feeling much better.

“Anyway, I don’t need your hugs. But we can go to a bar - you’ll order a beer, I’ll eat your tapas - and we can trash talk Dortmund and their shity German tactics.”

Geri sneers. It’s not like he’s a big fan of the German teams himself, they’re a pain in the ass. “I’m in.”

 

-

 

“Geri!” Neymar yells excitedly, skipping over and jumping onto Sergio’s back. Sergio’s hands reach back on instinct to support him so he won’t slip (after a couple of times of Neymar falling down like this and Iniesta and Messi scolding him for not taking care of the young ones Sergio started getting used to it).

“What are you so excited about, you idiot, we didn’t win yet.”

Neymar jumps down, pulls Sergio’s arm so the taller is facing him and beams at him. “This is the last game before Christmas break!”

Sergio nods. “Uh huh. I thought you liked playing football?” He says teasingly.

Neymar swats at his shoulder. “I do, you asshole! But I also like skiing and stuff in snowy mountains and partying until three am without having to worry about how it will fuck up my training schedule. Do you feel me, bro?”

Sergio laughs. “I feel you, I feel you.”

 

Sergio doesn’t really know what happened - they were clearly the superior team on the pitch, their possession was higher - but at a certain point they find themselves with a 2-1 ( _not_ exactly in their favor) scoresheet and only thirty minutes until the end of the match.

Ten minutes more and Messi scores an equaliser from a free kick (which leaves Sergio feeling dangerously close to relieved) and does his best to create as much chances as he can but it’s simply not enough.

One of the assistant referees raises the digital board. Four minutes are added to the game. A draw is good but it’s not _enough_.

Alba passes to Messi and the Argentine sends the ball flying into the net. One of the defenders manages to touch it with the tip of his boot just at the last moment and the ball goes wide. There’s a disappointed groan from Alba and Busquets throws his arms up. “Corner!”

Sergio runs over to the other net, positioning himself between Alba and Mascherano. Neymar grabs the ball and walks over to the sideline to take the corner kick.

Sergio knows he’s going to score this one before he actually does. He doesn’t always know, headers are a matter of both luck, practice and technique, but sometimes he just does, even before the ball touches his head.

He doesn’t even have to jump that high, Piqué’s additional eleven centimeters make the difference. It flies straight right through the goalie’s fingers and lands inside the net, firm and decisive.

Camp Nou explodes into cheers, but at that moment Sergio doesn’t hear the cheers of the _culés_ , he hears the cheers of the _fans_. Football is a language all the fans speak identically.

Neymar is the first to jump on him, followed by Suárez. It does become a bit less awkward when Busquets and Alba join - Sergio can just try to imagine that he’s in an alternative universe where Suárez and Neymar play for Spain (his little fantasy is shattered pretty fast, though, when Mascherano grabs the side of his head and yells “Gerard, you’re the man!” in his year).

When the shouts start calming down the others pull away, revealing Messi. He smiles up at him, mouths a soft ‘Geri’ and grabs his hand, pulling him into a hug. It’s nice, warm, welcoming. It almost makes Sergio forget how much he hates Barcelona ( _almost_ ).

 

They pass by the conference room, which Sergio somehow managed to avoid until this point, but he’s in a good mood and somehow Messi and Suárez end up dragging with them, so before he knows what’s going on there are reporters shoving their mics in his face.

He tries to answer them all with the clam, neutral tone he’s learned to put since he became a captain: How was the game? Good. What does it feel like to score? An amazing feeling. Why, according to him, Barcelona struggles even with such small teams these days? He doesn’t know, there’s the coach for that.

It all goes rather smoothly, Sergio thinks he actually does a great job at responding to all the questions the press throws at him, even the most tricky ones. Until...well,

Sergio blinks. He’s sure he’s just been asked a question, he could even make out some familiar-sounding words but for the love of god, Sergio can’t grasp the meaning of it.  
“Excuse me?”

The woman repeats the question patiently. Sergio doesn’t understand what she’s saying. Suddenly he becomes aware of the fact that she’s finished asking and now everybody is waiting for him to reply. Suddenly it dawns on him.

_Catalan._

Sergio has no idea what to do. It’s not like being asked a question you didn’t expect, it’s worse. His eyes run around the room in panic before settling on Messi next to him. Okay then.

“That’s an interesting question.” He says, hoping that it won’t be seen as strange that he chose to answer in Spanish instead of Catalan. “Leo, what do you think?”

Messi blinks up at him. “Oh, me?” He scratches his beard, then shrugs. “Not sure to be honest.”

“Actually,” It’s Alba who interferes. “That’s not completely true. You see, the thing is that the new line up is build in a way that’s supposed to be--” He dives into a detailed explanation and Sergio lets him take over answering the questions. He stays there for a moment more and then excuses himself and quickly leaves the room before another journalist catches him off guard with questions in fucking Catalan.

 

“Piqué.”

“Yeah, I watched the game--”

“ _Piqué.”_

“--nice goal, congrats, can we skip that part where I make fun of you for becoming a culé and you rub it in my fa--”

“Geri!” Sergio has to yell to grab the other’s attention. “ _Listen_. I’m in trouble, I’m in so, so much trouble, I can’t believe we haven’t thought about it--”

“Dude, calm down.” Piqué cuts him off. “What exactly happened?”

Sergio takes a deep breathe. Then blurts out. “Catalan.”

There’s a long, confused silence from Piqué’s side of the line. “Catalan?”

“Yes!” Sergio exclaims in frustration. “Fucking Catalan! Barcelona is Catalan! _You_ are Catalan, people here are _Catalan_!”

Piqué sounds unimpressed. “Wow, how attentive of you.”

“No, you don’t get it!” Sergio wants to tear his hair out. “Everybody here is Catalan _except me_ . I’m from goddamn Seville, south of Spain, I don’t _speak_ it, I don’t _understand_ it.”

There’s another long silence and then it finally seems to dawn on him. “ _No_.”

“Yes!”

“No!” Piqué groans loudly in frustration. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know! I got asked something during a press conference and I just kept staring at that girl like she was speaking Japanese.”

“Ramos..”

“Alba saved me, I have no idea what would happen if he didn’t--”

“Sergio!”

Sergio shuts up. “What?” Piqué is silent. It’s strangely alarming. “What, fuck, just tell me.”

Piqué lets out a long sigh. “I, uh. You gotta check the calendar but if I’m not wrong I have some interview soon, next week I think.”

“And?”

“An interview in Catalan.”

“Oh.” Sergio bites his bottom lip harshly. Well, that’s.. “Great.” He shoots sarcastically.

“Yeah, huh. I know.”

Sergio runs a hand through his hair, playing with the soft locks in his fingers. He thought overcoming his Madridismo enough to play for Barcelona would be hardest thing he will have to face but as time goes on more and more obstacles keep coming up. There seems to be no exit out of this one. “Can’t you cancel it?”

“I can’t, _you_ can.”

Is Piqué really that dumb or does he just not get it? “Then what are we waiting for, tell me the number, I’ll call them!”

“You can’t do that.”

Sergio blinks in confusion. “And that is why exactly?”

“You just… You just can’t, okay? That’s not how it works.”

Sergio blinks again. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like.. It’s like you would call a Spanish agency and start speaking in English with them. That would be weird, wouldn't it?”

Sergio ponders the thought for a moment. It makes sense - it really would look weird, and while weird is not what should be bothering them considering their situation, they probably should avoid jumping straight into it without even considering any other options. “So what do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

Sergio runs a hand through his hair again, rubs his ear. “Does Shakira know Catalan?”  
Piqué gives a negative hum. “No. I mean, she probably understands some words here and there but.. It won’t be useful.” They fall into a silence again, each thinking different ideas over in his head.

Piqué speaks up again. “I know this is a crazy idea but… What about Leo?”

Sergio frowns. How does Leo fit into this whole picture? “Does Messi even speak Catalan? As far as I know he doesn’t even speak English.”

“Oh, he does, actually.” Piqué corrects him. Sergio figures it makes sense - he’s been living in Barcelona since he was..what? A teenager? Younger? “He doesn’t exactly speak-speak it,” Piqué goes on. “But he understands basically everything and he knows the language well enough to make some basic sentences.”

Sergio still doesn’t quite see where Piqué is going with it. “Alright, so Messi knows Catalan. How does that help me?”

“Well… You know.”

“I know?”

“You know.”

Sergio can actually see where he _might_ be going with it but it’s an absolutely crazy idea he is not willing to try. “How are you imagining it? Hi, I’m Gerard Piqué, the Catalanest Catalan to ever live in Catalonia and I came to you, Lionel Messi, to help me with _my_ Catalan?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a person use the word ‘Catalan’ this many times in a sentence.” Piqué remarks quietly. “Including myself. Which says a lot.”

“Back to the point, Piqué.”

“Alright. Look.” Sergio can hear him shifting around, probably trying to get into a more comfortable for this conversation. “I mean, we told Shaki and Pilar, right? So I’m just saying, maybe it’s a good idea to tell Leo too. It won’t hurt having somebody from the team who knows about the situation and can back you up when needed.”

It makes sense. It’s logical. It’s actually a good idea. Sergio won’t mind. But he won’t agree to it, simply out of principle. “Oh yeah, cool, so you’re gonna get to hang out with your childhood friend since he knows, and me? What am I gonna do? BBQ with Mascherano and Suárez?”

Piqué scoffs in annoyance. “Man, I’m trying to help, you know? Jesus christ, you’re so self-entitled! No wonder you and Ronaldo get along so well.” Sergio feels the temperature of his body rising. If it wasn’t a phone call he would probably already punch him (or at least push him and make a dramatic exit with a loud door shutting). But it is what it is and they have to make it work. “You know, fine.” Piqué says suddenly. “I’ll tell Leo. He’ll help you with your fucking Catalan, he’s a nice guy, unlike you blancos. And you can tell whoever you want from Madrid, I don’t care. It could as well be Ronaldo.”

“Alright then,” Sergio exclaims angrily, clutching the phone tighter in his hand. “Good luck with it because he can’t stand you, like any other sane person.”

“Fantastic.”

“Brilliant.” Sergio suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he’s standing, his free hand clenched in a fist. He unclenches it and sits back down. “Better do it in person. Isn’t there a Nike event in Valencia in a few days?”

“Yes, so?”

“You take Cris with you, he’s Nike’s too. I’ll find a reason to drag Messi with me. We’ll meet there.”

“Fucking fantastic. Can’t wait.”

Sergio hangs up without responding. Each time he thinks they’re taking a step forward, becoming slightly more tolerant, a bit more mature - boom! Another argument.

When he stomps over to his bedroom he tears down the Barça flag hanging on the wall and pushes it into the closet because he can’t look at it without thinking about Piqué.

 

“I still don’t understand why I have to go.” Messi whines, glancing around the event place. There’s a lot of people, a lot of celebrities, which is good because it means less people are going to pay attention to them. “I don’t even like Nike. I’m an Adidas guy, you know it, Geri. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Sergio continues pushing through the crowd of people, keeping one hand on Messi’s shoulder so he won’t run away (or so nobody would step on him by accident, with the scary amount of Basketball players in here).

“I told you, Leo. I need company.” It’s a shit excuse but hey, he’s just being realistic. It’s not like Piqué is the master of clever excuses.

“You promised there will be free ice cream.”

“I lied.”

Messi groans and hides his face further inside the hoodie, like a turtle in a pet shop that had enough of kids patting it.

“Let’s get inside, there’s less people in there.” It’s true, the best parts of the event are happening outside, so the majority of the people, visitants and employees alike, are there: chatting, drinking, posing in front of cameras. He and Geri agreed to meet inside, next to the storage rooms where nobody usually hangs around.

He hears them before he sees them: Cristiano is whining about why Sergio is forcing him to wait in such a hole when he’s clearly supposed to be outside, with the rest of the cool people, smiling to cameras and talking about his new CR7 boots. He stops talking when he suddenly spots him and Messi appear from behind a corner.

Piqué makes the fakest surprised expression Sergio’s ever seen anybody make in his entire life. “Won’t you look at this! Gerard Piqué and his little friend, what a pleasure to see you!”

Cris frowns, visibly confused. “Uh, Lionel?”

Messi look like he’s trying to teleport back to his home. “Um. Hi.” He mumbles.

Sergio can see Cristiano’s brain working to try and put the puzzle pieces together. Sergio wishes he would just drop it. “What are you doing here? I mean-- Sorry, that was rude. I meant, I thought you’re Adidas?”

Messi buries his hands further in his pockets. “I am. I don’t know what I’m doing here myself.”

Seeing as Piqué doesn’t plan ending the awkwardness (the sadistic bastard looks like he’s _enjoying_ it) Sergio decides to do it himself.

“Leo is just keeping me company!” He exclaims, throwing an arm around Messi and pulling him closer. “Right, Ramos?”

Before Piqué has the chance to answer Cris coughs, drawing the attention to himself again. “I heard there’s a nice bar in here that serves non-alcoholic drinks.” He says casually. “I’ll get myself something to drink and be back.” He’s gone before either of them has the chance to stop him.

“Actually,” Messi untangles himself from under Sergio’s arms and takes a hesitant step backwards. “That sounds like a good idea. Geri, do you want anything? No? Good.”

Sergio watches him disappear. He places his hands on his hips, clicks his tongue and turns to look at Piqué in annoyance. “Congrats.” He says sarcastically. They haven’t talked since the phone call, barely texted at all, and at a certain point Sergio even started feeling kind of guilty for the fight they had earlier. But now, standing here, having to face his idiotic, smug smirk, Sergio feels the rage building up inside his chest all over again.

Piqué rolls his eyes. “Oh, how is this my fault that you scared them off?”

“ _I_ scared them off?” Sergio is scandalised. “You are the one who kept standing here and grinning like a maniac! I can’t do everything by myself, you know!”

Piqué lets out a fake gasp of disbelief and looks away for a moment before returning his gaze to Sergio. “You’re unbelievable.” He shakes his head, lips pursed, and shrugs. “Either I’m interfering _too_ much or I’m not doing enough, you’re never satisfied.”

Sergio wants to tear his hair out, again, like any other time he’s talking to Piqué. “I just want you to act normally and be cooperative, is that too much to ask from your slow brain?”

Piqué throws his arms up in the air in frustration. “God, you’re simply insufferable! I can’t deal with this anymore - it would be better to be stuck in the body of Mourinho or Perez, anything to avoid _you_.”

Sergio lunges forward - like he often does on the pitch, in a rush of emotions - and pushes him in the chest. He immediately regrets it  - he doesn’t mean for it to be as hard as it ends up being, doesn’t want to get physical, he’s just trying to prove a point, but once it’s started there’s no taking it back.

Piqué looks surprised for less than a millisecond, then angry. He takes a step forward and pushes back, using all of the available muscle mass in Sergio’s body. “You think you’re so cool, huh? Get off your high horse, Ramos.” He snarls angrily.

Sergio stumbles backwards, taken aback by the force of it. He narrows his eyes, glaring at the other. If there’s been any hint of regret in his chest before, it’s gone now. He grabs the collar of Piqué’s shirt, clutching it with his fist, and uses the fair height advantage he has now to push him against a wall. He leans closer, until their foreheads and noses are almost touching.

“Cut it out.” He mutters through gritted teeth. There’s an unexplainable rage bubbling within him, the origin of which Sergio can’t determinate.

Piqué remains unimpressed. He tilts his head and pouts mockingly. “Oh, Ramosito, did I hurt your feelings? I’m honoured to know you care about my opinion so much.”

If he doesn’t stop soon he’s going to punch him, Sergio decides. “I said fucking--”

A loud sound of shattering glass.

They both turn their heads simultaneously to look what happened. Cristiano and Messi are standing behind them, eyes wide in shock. Messi has one hand covering his mouth, the other clutching a glass of something bubbly in his hand. Cristiano, on the other hand, has both his hands frozen in the air, in the middle of some motion, like a stuck animation. There’s another glass, similar to Messi’s, but it’s on the floor, shattered into tiny pieces. The liquid is spilling all over the floor slowly.

Silence.

“For the love of god!” Cristiano cries out, finally breaking the silence. “We _literally_ left for five minutes to get a drink and you’re already at each other’s throats!”

Sergio catches Messi looking at him with a mix of horror and disappointment. “Sweet Jesus, Geri, let go of him!”

Cristiano is waving his arms in the air dramatically. “Sergio, what are you _doing_ , there are people, cameras everywhere! I don’t mind if you two kill each other but at least do it in private!”

Sergio realises that he’s still clutching Piqué’s collar in his hand. They’re so close he can feel the other’s breath on his neck. He lets go and steps away, straightening out his shirt awkwardly. “Um.” He glances at Piqué. The other, still leaning against the wall, nods. It’s time. “Guys..” Sergio begins carefully. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

 

It takes some convincing to make Messi and Cris stop thinking that it’s a prank, but there’s simply too many evidences on their side. Sergio would think their reactions are hilarious if not for the gravity of the situation.

Messi is pacing around the room back and forth while Cristiano is just standing, frozen on the spot, expression numb.

“I can’t believe this.” Messi mumbles, not really to anybody in particular. “I can’t believe this.” The Argentine is usually so calm and collected, it’s a weird sight for Sergio to see him in such distress. It’s almost like this happened directly to him, not to his teammate.

Messi stops pacing around and turns on his heels to glare at both Sergio and Piqué accusingly. “Why are you telling us only now?”

“Um.” Sergio shifts his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly, rubbing his hands together. He glances at Piqué. _Well?_

Piqué clears his throat. “Well, uh.” He’s looking at the floor, not meeting Messi’s eyes. An angry Messi is a scary Messi. “Ramos needs some.. Uh, help. With Catalan and stuff.”

Messi stares at him in disbelief. “Oh, you need help with Catalan?” He repeats quietly. His tone is alarmingly calm. Then comes the explosion. “You need help with Catalan! To me personally it looks like you need help with much more than just Catalan! Did you even think about how you’re going to solve it? Did you try to ask somebody, read stuff, find information online? This isn’t a goddamn joke. But no, of course, instead you’re too busy pinning each other against the wall during Nike events and giving me and Cristiano heart attacks! You’re both a buch of children and I’m not surprised you’ve ended up in this situation!”

Sergio involuntary feels himself curling in on himself, trying to disappear. He can feel Piqué trying to do the same next to him. It’s funny and terrifying at the same time how Messi can be this intimidating even with the clear size difference. Sergio feels like a little kid getting scolded by his parents.

“It’s not our fault!” He exclaims, knowing that’s it’s a shitty excuse. “It’s not like we asked for it! Right, Geri?” He grabs Piqué’s sleeve to pull him closer, tugging on it to get the other’s support.

Piqué looks up at him, a bit confused. “Oh!” He turns to look at Messi. “Yes, absolutely! Sergio is right.”

Messi throws his head back, closes his eyes and groans loudly. He mutters something in frustration but Sergio doesn’t quite catch it. Then Cris suddenly speaks up, for the first time since the beginning of the conversation.

“Lionel,” He says quietly, addressing Messi. “How about you take a moment to talk with Piqué in private and I’ll do the same with Sergio. And then we can come back here and discuss all of it together.”

Messi’s anger seems to fade away a bit when he looks at Cristiano. “Yeah.” He nods. “That’s probably a good idea.”

 

Sergio studies Cristiano closely. It’s been almost two whole minutes and the forward won’t say anything or even look at him properly, he keeps averting his eyes whenever he catches Sergio looking at him.

Sergio sighs. “Criiiiis.” He whines with a pout, hoping it looks convincing.

Cristiano runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” He apologises, finally turning to meet Sergio’s eyes. “I’m just… Having trouble accepting it.”

Sergio shrugs. “Yeah, I get it.”

Cris is silent for a moment. “How long?” He asks suddenly.

Sergio blinks. “How long what?”

“How long have you already been like this?”

“Oh. Umm…” Sergio’s eyes shoot up to the ceiling, trying to recall the exact number. “Well, since El Clásico.”

Cristiano exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair again. “Damn..” He mumbles.

“Yeah.”

Cris leans against the wall, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other scratching his cheek slowly. “God, the fucking asshole.” He mutters suddenly in anger.

It takes Sergio a few seconds to realise he’s talking about Piqué. “Don’t be hard on him, Cris.” He says, against his better judgment, moving a bit closer to lean on the wall next to him. “It’s not his fault.”

Cris laughs in disbelief. “Don’t be hard on him!” He exclaims. “Look who’s talking! You were just trying to strangle him ten minutes ago!”

Sergio scoffs. “Yeah, but like, Cris, I have reasons to hate him, I earned this right. What did he do to _you_ for you to earn it?”

Cristiano gapes at him, speechless. Can’t find a good counterargument, huh, Sergio thinks to himself smugly. “You never fail to amaze me.” He says at last.

“Well, I’m just amazing like that.” Sergio smirk cockily, giving Cris a teasing wink. “But seriously, though, dude, what did you expect? I’m the founder of the Gerard Piqué Hate Club, you need permission to join.”

Cristiano snorts in amusement. He shakes his head, mumbling something about Sergio being ridiculous under his breath. “You know what? Fine.” He says suddenly. “I have my own reasons to dislike Piqué, aside from his stupid comments about Madrid. Let’s just sit before I start telling you.” Sergio expects him to suggest going over to the bar or the seating area, but instead Cristiano sits down on the floor, legs crossed, shifting around a bit to find a comfortable position. “Alright, so. You ready?”

Sergio shrugs internally. _Why the hell not_ , he figures. He sits down on the floor (thank god it’s wooden so it’s not cold) leaning on the vending machine behind him. It must probably be ridiculous, two grown men, rich and famous footballers, sitting on the floor next to the storage rooms, gossiping and shit-talking a colleague. Except it’s not a colleague, it’s Gerard Piqué, the master of shit talk, so it’s allowed. “So?”

“So,” Cristiano begins. “We played together in Manchester, you know that. We weren’t exactly close, but we were certainly closer than we’ve been with most of the others. Cultural connection, I guess. He was from Spain, I was from Portugal, we were both young and ambitious. We clicked. We used to hang out together - at first there was also Ricardo, the Spanish goalie, and Kléberson, a Brazilian midfielder. Good guys. But they both left next season and then there was just me and Piqué.”

Sergio knows Cristiano, he knows the Portuguese can spend hours describing every detail of his days back in Manchester and Lisbon. “Criiis.” He whines pitifully.

“Yeah, sorry, back to the point. Piqué went back to Spain, on loan - Zaragoza? I’m pretty sure it was Zaragoza - told me he hopes Barcelona might notice him this way.” Sergio nods. He wishes Cris would just drop all those unnecessary details off and get straight to the main part of the story but he also knows that if he asks him to do so Cris will just stop telling him altogether. And Sergio _does_ want to know, Piqué pre-Barcelona years are something he doesn’t know much about, and Sergio wants to know every possible detail about that big asshole.

“And Barcelona did, indeed, notice him, apparently, because next season he transferred there. Was all really smug and happy about it, the jerk. We stayed in touched, during those two seasons, when he was on loan in Zaragoza and even when he moved to Barcelona. Well, it’s not like we talked on the phone or something, but we did chat from time to time - I sent him updates about Manchester, complained about the weather, he sent me pictures of him dancing with pretty Spanish girls, etcetera, etcetera. That kind of stuff. All good.” Cris makes a dramatic pause, probably for the effect. “Until I transferred to Madrid.”

Now he has Sergio’s attention. “What happened?” He asks, prompting him to go on.

“After that he stopped talking to me.”

Sergio doesn’t understand why Cris makes such a long pause after every sentence, he’s already intrigued enough. Seeing how Cristiano isn’t meaning to continue he urges him on. “Well? And?”

Cristiano raises a hand and turns it over in the air in a questioning gesture. “What ‘and’? That’s it, that’s the story.”

Sergio blinks in confusion. He was expecting some kind of drama, broken windows, maybe a story about how Piqué broke into Cristiano’s house in the middle of the night and murdered his dog… But this? “Well,” He lets out a light laugh. “That’s part of the Clásico culture. No offence but if any of us transferred to Barcelona I would stop talking with him too.”

Cristiano frowns, not pleased with Sergio’s reaction. “It’s different. He already was blaugrana when he came to Manchester, I became a blanco only after Madrid called me. Until then I didn’t care for the rivalry _that_ much. I’m not a Spaniard, Sergio, it’s not part of the Portuguese culture.”

It makes sense, what Cris is saying, in a way, maybe. Sergio can see how an outsider who never really cheered for any of the sides but rather simply watched the game itself could be thrown off by some of the Clásico antics.

“And anyway,” The forward goes on. “It had nothing to do with him, it was out of principle. I’m Cristiano Ronaldo. I’m not used to being ignored. Usually people enjoy my company.”

Sergio snorts. Of course it was about this, how did he not see it coming. “Remind me again why I’m your friend?” He asks jokingly, elbowing Cris in the arm.

The Portuguese flashes a blinding smile. “Because, like most people, you enjoy my company.”

Sergio laughs. He missed these little cocky remarks of his. “Of course.”

“But!” Cristiano turns around a bit so he’s fully facing Sergio. “Why do _you_ hate Piqué so much.”

Sergio frowns. He wasn’t expecting this question. It wasn’t meant to be asked, it was obvious why he hated Piqué. Wasn’t it?

“I…” He makes one, two, three meaningless gestures with his hand. It seems so obvious but now that he actually has to put it into words he’s having trouble explaining it. His mind goes blank. _I don’t know_ . “I just do.” _There isn’t really a reason._ “Because he’s an asshole.”

Cristiano clicks his tongue. “Oy, Sergio come on, there gotta be a reason. You’re not one to hold a grudge someone for no good reason. What happened with you two?”

Cris is right, Sergio isn’t the type to hate people for the fun of it. Piqué isn’t as well. And yet, here they are. Funny how until this moment he hasn’t really thought about it. The shaky bridge between him and Piqué has always simply been there and nobody, including themselves, ever questioned it. It was a fact.

Sergio shifts around, suddenly feeling uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. “It’s personal.” He mumbles. It kind of is.

Cristiano groans in disappointment. “Here I am, opening my heart to you as always, sharing my dark English past with you, and look how you repay me!” He straightens out his legs, putting one of them on top of the other, crosses his arms behind his head and keeps muttering something about ungrateful friends.

 

-

 

“Can you imagine he actually said that? I mean, I knew Ramos is a jerk but this is just a whole new level of jerkiness.” Leo faintly mumbles ‘I doubt that’s a word’ but Geri ignores his remark and keeps speaking over him. “We do interact every once in a while during international break but I’ve never had to deal with him on an everyday basis, like this. I guess when you have to be around a person every day their true nature is really starting to show.”

They’ve moved to a less crowded part of the inner guest area. Leo is sitting on the couch and Geri is lying with his legs propped up on the side of the couch, his head on Leo’s lap. After realising that there’s really nothing that could be done straight away he cooled down and even apologised for his outburst earlier. Not that Geri could ever be mad at him. He doesn’t know how long exactly he’s been ranting about Ramos but it must’ve probably been pretty long because he can tell that Leo isn’t really listening to him from the way he hums at the wrong moments, seeming to be more interested in playing with his hair.

“You know,” Leo murmurs quietly, twirling one of the dirty blonde locks around his finger. “He has nice hair.”

Geri stops ranting and frowns. “Who?”

“Sergio.”

Geri has to turn his head slightly and look at Leo to make sure he didn’t mishear. “Ramos?”

Leo nods lazily, not letting go of the hair, and hums in approval. “It’s all soft, shiny and pretty.”

“Leo!” Geri pushes himself up on his elbows. He sits up and turns to glare at Leo. “I’ve been telling you why Ramos is even more insufferable than I originally thought for the past half an hour or so and this is what you have to tell me? That he has nice hair?”

Leo makes an unhappy grimace. “Wait, come here.” He pushes himself up as well, from a half-lying position to sitting on his knees. He reaches his hand and removes a couple of especially long locks from his forehead, tucking them behind Geri’s ear. Leo tilts his head, as if measuring the value of his work, and then smiles. “Better.”

“ _Leo_.”

“Fine, Geri, alright.” Leo sinks back onto the pillows. He brings up a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. “God, what do you want me to say? You know what I think about it.” He rubs his forehead with his thumb, as if the mere conversation is already giving him a headache. “I think you’re both acting childish. I think you’re ignoring the main problem. I think you need to be more serious about it. I think there have to be people who’ve already been through this, there’s no way you’re the first. And,” He tugs on Geri’s sleeve, making him lie back down on the couch next to him. “I think that you should stop acting like you hate Ramos. You’re always so upset after you two fight.”

Geri watches him for a few long seconds in stunned silence, unable to do as much as blink. Then he bursts into laughter. “God, Leo!” He exclaims, swatting at the younger’s arm. “That’s a good one.” Geri shakes his head, shoulders shaking from laughter. “That must’ve been the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”

Leo rolls his eyes in annoyance and throws his head back, sinking further into the couch pillows. He has his ‘I have no energy to deal with this’ face on, the one he usually has whenever they concede in the last minutes of the game. Only this time it’s not the scoreboard, it’s his friend. “Geri.” He sits up, looking at his own hands resting in his lap for a moment before looking up at Geri. “Look, I love you, but sometimes you can just be so.. So..” He grunts and looks up at the ceiling, as if asking god to give him strength. “Let’s be real for a moment.” He says, looking at Geri again. “Nobody likes fighting with their friends- _teammates_ ,” He corrects as soon as he notices Geri opening his mouth to protest again the use of the word ‘friends’. “It’s not a club thing you have here: look at me and Cristiano. We’re not friends, but we respect each other. Look at Modric and Ivan, Marcelo and Neymar - they get along just fine, _more_ than fine.” Leo tilts his head ever so slightly and suddenly something in his posture changes. “Let me guess, you two had a fight two days ago. After our match.”

That makes Geri frown. Whatever comeback he had ready on the tip of his tongue freezes; he wants to say _no_ but instead blurts out “How did you know?”

Leo’s lips twist just barely, forming a hint of a smirk before straightening back into a neutral expression. “Because Ramos is the same, I don’t think he realised it himself but he was really upset about it. I mean, back then I thought it was you. I was going to ask you what happened but then you- I mean, Ramos- asked me about the Nike thing and I got distracted.” Leo laughs lightly. “It’s weird, huh? I don’t know how to refer to you anymore.”

Geri’s frown deepens. He feels angry after the fights, yes, but never _upset_ . He has no reason to feel that way and neither does Ramos. He doesn’t get what Leo is telling him, and honestly, if it was anybody else he would brush it off, but it’s _Leo_ , it’s Leo of all people, Leo who doesn’t ever say things just to start shit, Leo who he knows will always side with him, Leo who doesn’t talk that much but when he does, he _does_. “I think you were imagining things.”

Leo presses his lips together and gives him an unimpressed look. “You like pushing people’s buttons, Geri.” He says and Geri knows better than to interrupt him now that he started speaking. “You like testing them, seeing how far you can go. And Ramos - he’s explosive, he’s hot-headed. You enjoy that, he’s the only one who reacts to your dumb remarks _every_ time and that’s just what you want, but instead of taking this flow you have between you two and turning it into something good - like, I don’t know.” He throws his hand up in a vague gesture. “Building an invincible defence. Winning another World Cup. Go figure. Instead, you use that to start drama. That’s immature and childish, both of you.”

Leo exhales slowly. There’s silence. Geri doesn’t know why it’s silent, he was so sure he had a million counterarguments ready for all of the things Leo has just said, but in the end he finds himself with nothing. Leo reaches his hand toward his, brushing his fingers against Geri’s knuckles. It’s a comforting gesture.

“I’m just saying,” He speaks up again, voice back to its usual warm calmness. “Maybe all of this,” He waves his hand in Geri’s general direction. “Is some kind of sign. Maybe the stars got tired of this mess and decided to teach you a lesson.” He pauses and then raises his eyebrow meaningfully and adds. “There’s nothing uncool in being nice to people for a change, you know.”

Geri huffs out a laugh, pushing Leo’s hand away. “Oi, come one, that’s just mean.”

Leo laughs.

 

They don’t really talk after that. They as in he and Ramos, not he and Leo. Geri and Leo do talk, in fact, a lot. Each time it ends with Leo asking him teasingly how “the Ramos situation” is going and Geri groaning and threatening to hang up on him.

In his defence, it’s Ramos who should call first, he’s the one who has no games these days, christmas break, the lucky bastard. Geri, on the contrary, has the Club World Cup games to prepare for. He sort of wishes they just lose straight away to Club América so they don’t have to play the final and just go home. But that’s not how it works, he’s in Madrid now and the Madridistas are eager beyond belief.

Ronaldo didn’t talk to him ever since the Nike event, but Geri figures he prefers to focus on training before the match. Or maybe he’s still in shock. Or both. Either way, he sticks to the company of Navas and Marcelo, who turn out to be much nicer to be around than he originally supposed. Navas is a calm and rather quiet guy in general, serious enough to focus on what he’s doing but loose enough to have fun and participate in all the jokes the blancos share between themselves during practice. Marcelo.. He kind of reminds Geri of Neymar. And not only because of the Brazilian accent - he’s a cheerful, happy guy who may appear to be lazy or childish at first, spending most of the time messing around with the others, but shows incredible skills as soon as the ball touches his feet; after enough hours spent with him you get to see the amount of hard work he puts into what he does.

 

The semi-final match goes smoothly, if you look at the final scoreboard; 2-0 in their favour. But in reality, the game has been much more stressful than what the scoresheet can tell you, there’s too many wasted chances, too many defensive mistakes, too many close calls. It almost feel unreal when Benzema finally gives them the lead in the very last minutes of the first half. The team goes into the tunnel in high spirits, but they can all feel the frustration underneath the hopeful cheers.

Ronaldo congratulates Benzema on his goal and smiles at Modric when the Croatian tells him something about the second half but the moment he’s inside the locker rooms, sitting on the bench, his face twists into a sulking grimace. Pepe approaches him.

“Relax, man, we’re one goal ahead.” He says, slapping him on the back amicably.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. _One_ goal.” Ronaldo drags a hand down his face. “The second half is always the harder half for us, remember what happened with Borussia? We need to get there with as much advantage as we can.” He bites his lip thoughtfully, bouncing his leg up and down unconsciously. “It’s really showing that we don’t have Gareth. And Luka and Toni almost never rest, this way they’re just gonna get injured at some point and then we’re fucked. It always feels like we _barely_ make it. I’m just worried that-” He trails off abruptly when he notices Geri looking at him.

Ronaldo narrows his eyes. “What are _you_ looking at?”

Geri blinks at him in disbelief. Yeah, he’s not stupid, he got it that Ronaldo wasn’t exactly all that _delighted_ to learn that he has Gerard Piqué on his team now, but he still has a hard time believing that he’s actually going to start shit _like this_ , publically, when they’re both surrounded by their clueless teammates. Not that it’s going to stop Geri from talking back.

“I just don’t understand why you gotta be all so dramatic about it.” He shoots back. “We’re winning, end of story. Be happy.”

Pepe glances at him, then at Ronaldo, then at him again. “Uh, guys.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “All good?”

Ronaldo ignores him. “No, I can’t be happy, I can’t pretend that it’s fine when it’s clearly not. Because unlike you, Pi-” He catches himself in time, cutting himself off. He stands up, takes a step closer and speaks again, this time keeping his voice quieter. “Because unlike you, this club is actually important to me, I care about what happens.” He grabs his water bottle from the bench and turns to look at Pepe. “I’m gonna go talk to Zizou about subbing James in in the second half.” He brushes by Geri and heads toward the exit to find Zidane.

Geri can’t just leave it like this without saying anything back. He catches up to him just as Ronaldo steps out of the locker rooms. There’s nobody in the corridor so they can speak freely.

“The fuck is wrong with you, dude?” He asks. It’s not like he needs Ronaldo to like him or something, Geri will be fine without that, thank you very much. But the amount of hostility the forward projects is larger than what he could ever imagine.

Ronaldo tilts his head. Their eyes are on the same level now, Geri doesn’t have that 10 centimeters advantage he’s used to anymore and despite his best judgment it bothers him. “We’re not friends, Piqué.” He says coldly. “You’re never nice to my club, my friends, my teammates, my people, my city. You’re never nice to Sergio. I have no reason to be nice to you when you’ve never been anything but a jerk to what’s important to me.” He keeps speaking, doesn’t give Geri a chance to put in a response.

“I know you and Sergio are in a difficult situation. I know you came to me and Messi for _help_ , I know that Messi is probably helping Sergio right now with Catalan or whatever the hell it was, Messi is a nice guy. But I’m not gonna do it. I’m _really sorry_ if I come off as an asshole. Actually, wait a second.” He frowns and puts a finger on his chin, as if he’s thinking over a very complicated problem. “I’m not.” He gives Geri a sarcastic smile.

Geri inhales slowly. He can almost swear the blood in his veins is boiling. “You know what,” He sneers, not caring how harsh it will sound. “I’m not one to believe what the press has to say. But they’re right about _everything_ they say about you.”

Ronaldo raises an eyebrow. Fighting with him is so different from fighting with Ramos. The Portuguese reacts to _events_ \- he reacts to losses, goals, failures - but not to personal insults. He doesn’t get physical, doesn’t try to insult back, maybe it’s the effect of spending so many years under the big mouth of the international press. He just looks at him, not in anger. Actually, he looks more tired than anything else.

“They say a lot of things.” He responds calmly. “You see what you choose to see, Piqué. You of all people should know that.” And the next moment he’s gone.

In all honesty, fuck this guy.

 

The rest of the match goes smoothly. There’s tension and a lot of lost nerves but at the end they finish with two goals and a clean sheet. Ronaldo does score, in the 90th minute, his goal assisted by James who came in in the middle of the second half. He looks happy, when the crowd cheers and James runs up to him to celebrate, followed by the rest of the teammates. Geri barely suppresses the urge to make a grimace. That would be hard to explain later.

“Hey,” Ronaldo approaches him later in the locker rooms, just as Geri is getting ready to leave. “I, um. About earlier-”

“It’s cool.” Geri cuts him off sharply. “I got it. We’re not friends. You don’t like me, I don’t like you. No need to pretend. If you talk to Ramos tell him he’s an ass.”

He turns around and heads to the bus before he can hear the other’s answer.

While he’s on the bus, the team heading back to their hotel, a low buzz interrupts his music. Geri takes off his headphones and looks at his phone. There’s one message from Ramos.

_your an ass yourself_ , it reads.

Geri smirks. He doesn’t reply on purpose, leaving the other’s message on read.

 

The final is merely three days after the semi-final, which is unfair, but that’s how sports works. Geri kind of expects Ramos to call him before the match, like he always did with all the important matches before, whether it was to give him instructions or to rant until Geri got tired of him and hung up. But no, he doesn’t. Geri isn’t quite ready to acknowledge the light ping of disappointment he feels at that.

They get the first goal - it’s Benzema again, opening the score at the early minutes of the match. It all goes well until one of the Kashima players puts in a ball just before the end of the first half.

It wouldn’t have been as bad if it wasn’t followed by another one in the early part of the second half. Geri involuntary lets out a frustrated groan.

“Come on, guys, vamos!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together and sending encouraging gestures to Marcelo, Varane and Carvajal. He catches his own image on the screen in the stadium with the corner of his eye and turns around to face the camera filming him. _Look at me being a good captain, Ramos_.

Eight minutes later one of the Kashima players scythes Vázquez. Geri is standing pretty far but it does seem rather harsh. The ref blows the whistle and raises his hand in the air - penalty.

Ronaldo goes over to Vázquez, helping the younger to his feet, and then takes the ball and places it on the penalty mark, taking a few steps back to take it. It goes in.

“Amazing goal.” Geri mutters before he can bite the remark back.

Ronaldo smiles. “Oi, come on, don’t be like this. Be happy.” He wraps an arm around Geri and pushes him to turn around. The forward places his chin on his shoulder and points at the scoreboard. “See the screen? Sixty minutes. Forty more to go. Either we score now, or in extra time. Either way, we got it.” He slaps him on the chest lightly and pulls away. Geri watches him return to his position with a frown.

There’s a couple more chances but even after the additional time, it’s still a tie. The ref blows the whistle. Extra time.

Everybody goes to the sidelines, some to stretch, some to drink, some to rest, some to talk with Zizou about possible changes they should make.

Marcelo calls everybody over and they form a large circle. Zidane speaks first and then glances at him. Geri figures he should probably say something captain-like.

“Yeah, uh. Let’s do this! Vamos!”

“Hala Madrid!” Ronaldo exclaims and the rest of the teammates echo his words.

They all reach over, placing their hands in the center of the circle.

“Three, two, one…. Vamos!”

 

It’s Ronaldo. It’s Ronaldo who makes it 3-2 less than ten minutes after the extra time begins and then makes it 4-2 for the team and a hat trick for himself seven minutes later. He hugs Marcelo, then Benzema, then the rest of the teammates who arrive, all the while beaming like he just won the treble.

Geri doesn’t mean to join the celebration, but it would raise questions if he didn’t congratulate him in any way at all, so he walks over to give him a friendly slap on the back and maybe say a few words too, but instead Ronaldo grabs his shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Ah, ah, ah!” He exclaims, pulling away, the grin on his face almost blinding. “Come on, isn’t it amazing? Come here.” And before Geri has the chance to react he leans in and places a firm kiss on his cheek. “This is how we do it in Madrid.”

Geri watches him with a confused smile and a frown. “Yeah, wow, geez. Thank you.”

Ronaldo takes a step back but keeps one hand on his shoulder. He reaches his other hand forward, ruffling Geri’s hair. “I like what you’re doing to his hair.” He states. “It looks good like this, Sergio likes putting too much gel in it and it makes him look like a sad frog that got caught in a rain storm.”

Geri can’t hold back the bark of laughter that escapes his lungs at that comment. The description is simply...way too accurate, as strange as it sounds. “Oh, look who’s talking, Mister I eat hair gel for breakfast!” He reaches his hand to touch the other’s hair but Ronaldo moves away.

“Hey, don’t touch, you’ll ruin it.” He warns him.

Geri laughs. “See? Proves my point. You’re not one to talk, especially not about Ramos’ hair.”

Ronaldo places a hand on his hip and looks at him funny. “I don’t get it. Did you just defend him?”

“No!” Geri’s eyes widen. “No, I didn’t! I just..” What choice did he have? It was either laughing at Ramos by agreeing with Ronaldo or disagreeing with Ronaldo by defending Ramos. One is worse than the other.

The Portuguese shakes his head, amused. “God, I can’t believe this. You know, the other day, at the Nike event, while you were with Messi me and Sergio talked about you.” Ronaldo gets a strange sort of grin on his face, one Geri can’t quite identify. “I told him about how your sorry ass stopped talking to me after I came to Madrid because, hey, I was trying to be a supportive friend and all by relating to his Piqué-hate, but instead of saying something mean he started defending you by saying that it’s part of the Clásico culture and he would do the same.” Ronaldo chuckles. “I don’t think he realised what he did himself, but it was entertaining to watch.”

Geri just gapes at him dumbly. He doesn’t really know what to say, Ronaldo’s words put him into a dead end, with no options, just like Leo did only a few days ago. God damn them both.

Meanwhile, Ronaldo keeps talking (he turned out to be a pretty talkative guy, this _Cris_. Not always in a good way). “All of this is entertaining, you two trying to put up a show of hating each other while everybody around you can clearly see how much you’re sulking each time it happens. Funny.” Ronaldo tilts his head slightly and smiles widely at him. “I should probably stop talking before I say something I regret. I tend to be very honest when I’m happy and I’m the happiest when I score, I won’t lie.” The forward closes his eyes and inhales slowly, a peaceful expression on his face. “It just…does something to me.” He opens his eyes, looking at Geri again, and smirks playfully. “Guess you could say scoring for me is like tweeting about Ramos for you.”

Geri rolls his eyes so hard he’s worried they might actually turn over and get stuck backwards. “Oh, fuck off, Ronaldo.”

“Cristiano.” Ronaldo corrects him. “You used to call me Cristiano, Geri.” Geri looks at him. Well, he’s not wrong. “And start calling Sergio by his first name too. Ramos sounds like a leather belts brand.”

Geri snorts. “Everything sounds like a leather belts brand to you, _Cristiano_.”

Cristiano smirks. “No, Piqué sounds like a very bad insurance company.” He retorts. Geri opens his mouth, about to say that Ronaldo sounds like a tourist agency that just wants to steal your money from you but Cristiano beats him, speaking first. “Call him.”

Geri blinks. “What?”

“Sergio. Call him.”

Geri frowns. “No way,” He swats at Cristiano’s arm. “He’s the one who should call, it’s his Club World Cup. But he’s ignoring me.”

Cristiano sighs. He looks up, at the stands full of white jerseys celebrating their victory, at the lights, at the staff people running around, organising the awards ceremony. His eyes look softer, dreamier for a moment. “This is our second time here as world champions.” He says slowly. “The last time, it was with Iker.” He tears his gaze away from the lights, slowly turning to look back at Geri. “This is important for Sergio. He really wanted to win this. For the club, for the fans, for himself. For Iker. He’s upset about not getting to play because of this..inconvenience. But if you call him, maybe he’ll feel like it wasn’t such a waste since you got to be here instead of him, even if it wasn’t exactly at your own will.”

It’s all pretty damn touching. Maybe Geri’s heart even clenches for a seconds (he misses Iker too). But it’s still not enough to push his stone-steady stubborn personality. “Whatever, I still won’t call. And he won’t either.”

Cristiano presses his lips together, squinting at him in annoyance. “Alright then.”

 

It’s after the award ceremony, while they’re standing on the bright, coloured pitch, chatting with each other, celebrating, when Cristiano approaches him with his phone in his hand.

“It’s Leo, he wants to tell you something.”

Geri jerks his head sideways to look at him. “Leo? _My_ Leo?”

Cristiano nods, pushing the phone into his hands. “Yeah, Leo Messi. Just take it.” Geri does.

He covers the phone with his hand so the noise won’t reach it and walks over to a quieter part of the pitch. He leans against one of the posts and brings the phone to his ear. He isn’t sure if it was Leo who called Cristiano because he couldn’t reach Geri’s phone or if it was Cristiano himself who came up with the idea, but whoever it was, Geri is grateful because he really won’t mind to clear some things up. Somehow, Leo never fails to calm him down.

His “hey Leo” is already on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t get to say it because the voice on the other end of the line is faster. “Cris? Cris? You still there?” It’s not Leo’s voice. It’s his own. Which means…. “Woohoo,” Ramos exclaims. “Earth to Cristiano Ronaldo? Hellooo?” There’s a muffled ‘fuck, did he hang up on me?’.

_The fucking asshole_. Of course, Geri should’ve known there was something suspicious the moment Cristiano handed him the phone saying it was Leo. Of course he would do something like that. Of fucking course. He considers just letting Ramos think Cristiano did hang up on him and act like none of this happened but apparently his traitorous mouth does make some kind of noise because suddenly Ramos falls silent. “Uh. Ge- Piqué?” He asks. Geri doesn’t know how it took him this fast to realise it.

He considers hanging up but for some reason he doesn’t. “Yeah, um. ‘Ts me. Hi.”

A long silence follows. Geri would’ve thought the other just hang up on him if not for the sounds of Ramos’ rhythmical breathing coming from the other end of the line. It seems to last forever to the point that Geri, again, considers just hanging up, since neither of them seems to manage to come up with anything to say, when Ramos suddenly blurts out.

“Did you know that ‘dammit I’m mad’ spelled backwards is still ‘dammit I’m mad’?”

Geri blinks, twice. _What?_ “Oh, is it?”

Ramos hums lazily. “Yah, read it somewhere on the internet. Dunno if it’s true.” A pause. “But dammit, I’m mad.”

Geri raises an eyebrow. “Oh, are you?”

There’s some muffled rustling - Geri can’t really figure out where it’s coming from. He wonders what Ramos is doing. “Nah, not really. I mean, wish I was there but I’m happy we won. Cris is the absolute best.” He coughs to clear his throat and then says. “You know. If you wanted to talk you could just call me, you didn’t have to do it through Cris. It’s not like I would just ignore your calls if you did.”

Geri frowns, confused, before realising what the other meant. “Oh. Um, no, I don’t-- I mean, Cristiano said it was Leo, that Leo wanted to talk to me. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Oh. Well, okay then.” He sounds a bit hurt. “I won’t waste your precious time. Go call Leo. Hope you enjoyed captaining the world champions-”

“No, Sergio, wait- I mean- fuck.” He forgot what a smartass Cristiano is. How attentive he is to details, how he knows when to be honest and when to rile someone up. The guy likes putting up a facade of a self-centered asshole but in reality he’s just as much of a smart devil as Leo when it comes to the art of human interaction. “I _did_ want to talk. I just.. I don’t know, you usually call before matches and today you didn’t so I figured you didn’t want to talk to me or something.”

He can hear Ramos shrugging. “Nah, dude, I’m not..mad or anything. I just. Dunno. Didn’t want to ruin the fun I guess.” A pause. “By the way, how are you and Cris getting along?”

Geri feels relieved at the topic change, he really doesn’t feel like talking about feelings. “Oh, that’s a weird story. Just a few days ago he told me that we aren’t friends and he has no reasons to like me and now we’re besties or something, judging by the way he started acting around me. The guy has a bipolar personality disorder, I’m telling you.”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. When did he tell you that? That you aren’t friends and stuff?” Ramos clarifies.

Geri frowns - what does it matter? He doesn’t even remember. “Uh, during the semi-final? We were winning by one goal but he-”

Ramos cuts him off. “So during halftime?”

Again, what the hell does it matter? Geri doesn’t get where Ramos is going with it. “Yes, during halftime.” There’s a silence. Then Ramos starts laughing. Geri frowns further. “What? What is it, you jerk?”

Ramos keeps laughing. “Oh god, you poor soul.. I didn’t warn you, did I?” He’s still laughing when he speaks. “There are three main rules in the Madrid dressing rooms. First - don’t talk about Barcelona, unless it’s something bad. Second - don’t mention transfers, former and future. And third - Don’t approach Cristiano Ronaldo during halftime.” Ramos clicks his tongue, chuckling. “Cris is an amazing guy but he gets so moody between halves. Unless he already scored a brace or a hat trick in the first half it’s better to not touch him, helps him concentrate. The only ones who are allowed to break this rule are Fábio, Pepe and Marcelo. They’re the Portuguese gang or something.” Ramos laughs again.

Geri runs a hand through his hair in frustration (he’s been doing it a lot lately. Ramos’ hair turned out to be surprisingly soft and pleasant to play with). Well, maybe not as much in frustration as in confusion. But he’s learned a long time ago to not question certain things, especially if Ramos said them. “Alright then. And how are you and Leo getting along?”

“Oh, really good. He taught me how to say Visca el Barça but refused to teach me how to say Hala Madrid. Apparently it doesn’t exist in Catalan because you don’t say that. So I came up with my own version. Here, check this out.” Ramos coughs, inhales and makes a dramatic pause for the effect. “Visca el Madrid.”

Geri almost chokes. He doubles over, almost dropping the phone. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” He states once he can speak again. “I don’t want to talk to you ever again.”

Ramos lets out a loud bark of laughter. “I even--” The laughter doesn’t let him finish and he’s forced to trail off mid sentence. “Oh god, I’m sorry, this is just so funny, my stomach is hurting so bad.”

“Good, you deserve it.” The comment only makes Ramos crack up even further. “God!” Geri exclaims, stubbornly trying to ignore the traitorous smile tugging at his lips. “Like half of our conversation so far has been you laughing over stuff I don’t even understand.”

Ramos’ laughter gets louder and then there’s a series of loud thuds and items scattering around the floor. “Oh my god, dude, I’m so sorry, I think I just dropped that bookshelf with the Puyol pic on it.”

“You better put it back.” Geri warns, trying to sound angry but with not much success. Suddenly, he gets an idea. “You know what? You know what, Sergio? If you’re gonna say that ugly thing I’ll start saying Hala Barça from now on.”

He can practically hear Ramos’ grin through the phone. “Deal.”

 

-

 

Antonella opens the door. Sergio looks up from his phone and smiles at her. “Hey, Anto, I came to see Leo, we..”

“Oh, yeah, I know!” She steps aside, making space for him to come in. “Please come in, Sergio.”

For a moment Sergio is taken aback by the use of his real name. “Uh.. Yes?” He asks dumbly after a good ten seconds of blank staring.

Antonella laughs warmly. “Don’t worry, I know. Leo told me.”

“I told you what?” Messi asks, suddenly appearing next to Antonella with a bag of crisps in his hand, wearing Albiceleste shorts and a light grey, baggy sweatshirt Sergio recognises from his Instagram. “Oh, hi Sergio.” He greets him when his eyes fall on Sergio standing in the doorway. “Yeah, I told Anto about,” He makes a vague gesture in the air. “The whole thing. Hope you don’t mind. I won’t tell anybody else, don’t worry. I just figured it’ll be easier this way.”

Sergio waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, sure dude, I don’t mind, really.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Messi gestures for him to follow him into the kitchen.

“So, how was the final yesterday? Did you guys win?” He asks casually, searching through the cupboard for a bowl.

Sergio squints at him. “Didn’t you watch?” He asks slowly.

Messi shrugs. “I was sleeping.”

Sergio raises an eyebrow. “It was during the afternoon by local time.”

Messi stops. “Oh.” He mouths.

“Knowing Leo he probably _was_ sleeping.” Antonella says with a fond smile. “The amount of naps he takes during the day is ridiculous, even Thiago doesn’t sleep as much.”

Messi frowns and mumbles ‘that’s an exaggeration’ quietly. Antonella walks over to the cupboards Messi is standing next to and opens one of the drawers, pulling a large plastic bowl out of it. “Here’s what you’re looking for, silly.” She says, handing him the bowl. “And don’t forget to share some with your guest.” She adds, nodding in Sergio’s direction.

Messi’s expression turns sad. “But.. This is a limited edition asado flavour pack. They only make these in Argentina. I got them from Masche, his family sent him some.” He looks at Sergio in desperation, as if begging him to say he’s not hungry.

Sergio laughs. “Hey, it’s fine, don’t worry. Eat your asado, I just ate at home.” He grimaces in disgust. “Geri’s kids need some professional help. Their food choices worry me. Who the hell eats cereal with _almond_ milk? The only person I know who likes almond milk is Cris and he isn’t exactly a good example of a person who makes good food choices.”

Antonella and Messi exchange glances. “Okay..” Antonella drawls slowly. “I’ll leave you boys alone. I promised Maria to call her back.” She places a kiss on Messi’s cheek, grabs a few crisps from his bag and heads to the staircase leading to the second floor. “Bye, have fun!”

Messi waves at her, then turns to looks at Sergio. “Should we move to the living room? You can take something from the kitchen with you.”

“Yeah, let’s.” Sergio agrees. “And nah, I’m good.” While they’re walking to the living room Sergio takes note of the sweatshirt. “Oh, I know this one.”

Messi hums. “Mm, yeah?”

“Uh huh. From your Instagram.”

Messi raises an eyebrow. “You follow me on Instagram?”

“I don’t. But Cris likes going through your feed and criticising your fashion sense sometimes so he showed me.” He realises he should’ve probably not said that, but Messi doesn’t seem to react to this new information in any way, and it’s not like there’s any secret paparazzi hiding in his house, so Sergio goes on. “He said long sleeved shirts look good on you, especially light ones, as long as they’re with no turtleneck.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, trying to remember Cristiano’s exact words. “Like that Argentina training sweatshirt. Brings out your figure or some shit.”

Messi shoves a few more crisps into his mouth. “Wow, Ramos and Ronaldo talk about my figure during their free time.” There’s a teasing hint to his tone but it’s hard to tell. “I’m flattered.”

Sergio squints. “He said they look good on you because they hide those ugly tattoos.”

Messi stops in his tracks and turns around to glare at him. His eye level barely reaches his neck, it’s kind of entertaining. “I’m trying to decide who’s worse, you or Geri.” He drawls finally.

Sergio spreads his arms. “It was _Cris_ who said that, not me!” He exclaims defensively.

“Cristiano said it to _you_ .” Messi points out. “Not to me. You’re the one who said it to me. You and Geri both have this problem - you’re too honest. Everybody _thinks_ mean stuff, but only you and Geri would actually say it publically. _And_ be surprised when people react.” He grins at him. “Let’s go, I have some stuff prepared for you.”

Messi leads him to the living room and flops down on the large, soft-looking couch in the middle of the room. There’s a huge plasma TV across from the couch and a glass table between them. There are no windows but there are large glass doors leading into the garden behind the TV, which lights the entire room. Messi pats the spot next to him. “Come here.”

Sergio drops down on the free spot next to him. “Sooo,” He drawls, glancing around. “What exactly are we gonna be doing?”

“Well,” Messi reaches to pick up the tv remote from the table. “Geri said it’s better that I teach you Catalan to avoid awkward situations in the future.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I’m not gonna do that.”

“Uh huh.”

“Instead we’re gonna sit here and watch Crackòvia until you can understand at least some of it.”

“Uh huh?” Sergio turns to look at Messi, who’s flipping through some saved programs on the screen. “Crackòvia?”

Messi hums in approval. “Crackòvia.”

“Isn’t it that horrible culé show?” Sergio remembers watching Crackòvia, once, and it was when he accidentally stumbled into the room Piqué and Cesc were at, instead of the one he was sharing with Iker. He didn’t really like it.

Messi shrugs, eyes fixed on the screen, fingers playing with different buttons on the remote. “Well, not really culé. It’s a football satire show. It’s Catalan, so it’s quite Barça-centered, but it makes fun of pretty much everybody.” He tears his eyes away from the screen finally to look at Sergio. “Did you really never watch it?”

Sergio shakes his head. “Nope. Never.”

Messi’s eyes widen for a moment. “Wait… So..does that mean you never saw that episode where me and Ronaldo make out in the elevator?”

Sergio gapes at him for ten seconds straight, brain unable to process the newly received information. “The episode where you and Cris _what?_ ”

Messi breaks into a large grin. “You didn’t. Good god. I’m gonna show you.” He turns back to the tv, opening one of the older folders and starting to go through the list of saved episodes. “This one is fully in Spanish though, no Catalan, so it won’t be very useful, but you just gotta see it. Geri was hollering with laughter.” He rolls his eyes at the memory. “You should like it too, you two have a similar sense of humor.”

And before Sergio can protest his brilliant sense of humor to Piqué’s fucked up one he’s watching Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi get into the same elevator with nobody else in it on screen.

 

Half an hour later and they’re still watching Crackòvia. Sergio is half leaning on the couch, half lying on the floor, clutching his sides. There are tear stains around the corners of his eyes and his stomach feels like it’s going to explode any moment.

“Oh god, I can’t believe he actually-- Oh _god_.” He can’t even form any coherent phrases at this point. He can hear Messi giggling loudly above him on the couch, despite claiming to have watched all of those episodes ‘about a million times already’ with Piqué. “Wait.. Wait-- Pause it, pause it! I need a moment!” Messi reaches for the remote, clicking the pause button. Sergio inhales deeply, trying to catch his breathe and calm down. His chest is going up and down, as if he’s just run hundreds of kilometers. “Hey, Messi. Messi. Leo.”

The Argentine rolls over to look at him. “Hmm?” He hums, an amused smile still tugging at his lips.

“Do they have me in some episodes too? Or is it just you, Cris and the coaches?”

“What? Of course!” Leo reaches for the remote again. “You’ve actually been one of the more popular protagonists of the show for a good couple of years. You and Geri both have a lot of appearances - usually it’s related, too.”

Sergio turns to stare at him in disbelief. “Wow. I’ve been famous this whole time and I didn’t even know.”

“Wait, so you’ve really seen none of them?” Leo asks again, like it’s something surprising. “No even the ‘picky’ parody?”

“The what?”

Leo shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. Listen, they make song parodies sometimes. You know Joey Montana’s ‘picky’, right?” Sergio nods. “They made a parody about you and Geri, right after the last international break, when the whole mess with the kit sleeves in twitter happened.” Leo makes a grimace. “But yeah, the parody is priceless. You are Joey Montana and instead of ‘picky’ you’re singing ‘Piqué’. You gotta watch it.”

He puts the clip on. Sergio straightens up. “Dude, isn’t that Jordi Rios?”

Leo blinks at him. “Hm? Oh, you mean the actor. Yeah, it’s him. And Geri is Albert Melich.”

Sergio squints at the screen. “I am _much_ more good looking in real life.”

Leo huffs out a laugh. “I can’t believe that’s what worries you the most. Either Ronaldismo is infectious, or you all become like that after a few years in Madrid.” He says teasingly.

Sergio sticks his tongue out at him and turns to look back at the screen. Leo was right about one thing, though. The parody _is_ priceless. Just like all of the other song parodies Leo shows him after that.

“Wait, Leo, what is this word they’re saying all the time?” Sergio brings his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to get the sound right. “Asho? Ashyo? Ash-yo?”

Leo pauses the video they’re watching. “Oh, yeah. Això. It’s like..esto in Spanish. It’s spelled a-i-x-ò but pronounced ay-shoh.”

Sergio snorts. “Catalan is weird, dude.”

To his surprise, instead of arguing with him, like Sergio would expect him to, Leo just shrugs and says. “It is.” The corner of his mouth twists into a mild grimace. “And also kinda ugly.”

Sergio almost chokes. “Kinda _what?_ ” He asks with a laugh, wondering if he’s misheard.

“But it is!” Leo retorted stubbornly. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s just Spanish grammar with some Italian spelling and a Portuguese-French pronunciation. It sounds _horrible_.” He places his index finger over his lips and turns to look at Sergio. “But don’t tell Geri, he’ll get offended.”

Sergio laughs. “I seriously can’t believe you.”

Leo shrugs. “There are very few languages that are prettier than Spanish. Catalan, English, French are all..” He wrinkles his nose. “That’s why I don’t really speak anything but Spanish.”

Sergio’s grins widens. He likes his way of thinking. “Definitely agreed. Team Spanish!” He raises his hand for a high five, but instead of accepting it Leo narrows his eyes at him.

“Um. No.” He says harshly. “I meant Latin American Spanish, not _Spanish_ Spanish. You guys have all those weird European sounds. Who the hell pronounces s and z like a _th_?”

Sergio throws his arms up. “Woah there, mister Latino. Not _everywhere_.” He points out defensively. “In Ancalucía we have the Seseo phenomenon, just like in Latin America.”

Leo pauses. He scratches his beard, thinking it over. “You have a point.” He admits finally. “Fine, okay, you win. Team Spanish.” He raises his hand and Sergio leans forward to complete the high five.

Sergio sits back down on the carpeted floor, leaning against the couch with his back. His phone, lying on the edge of the table, catches his attention. Suddenly he gets an idea. “Hey. Leo.”

“Mmm?”

“Can you teach me how to say ‘I hate you, asshole’ in Catalan?”

Leo looks up and blinks at him. “What?” He frowns. “Why would you want to say _that?_ I can teach you how to say I love you or something instead.”

Sergio shakes his head. “No, no. I need to know how to say I _hate_ you.”

“Umm, okay.” Leo shifts into an upright position on the couch. “Uh, let’s see. Odiar is hate, just like in Spanish. The conjugation for I is odio..then you add te, but it starts with a vowel so you drop the e.. T’odio.” He states finally, looking at Sergio. “I hate you is t’odio. T’odio cabró, if you insist on the ‘asshole’ part.”

Sergio nods slowly, memorising the expression in his mind. “T’odio, cabró..” He drawls slowly. “Got it. Thanks.”

 

“Alright. Thanks for all of this, it was nice. I had a good laugh.” Sergio grins.

“Please, I thought you were going to drown in your own tears or something. Told you you and Geri have the same sense of humor.” Leo grins back at him.

Sergio huffs. _We don’t_. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he thought Leo would be weird about it, that he would have to do most of the talking to make up for the awkward silences. But the forward has been surprisingly cool about the whole situation, like he does it everyday.

“You know,” Whatever is on Sergio’s mind is immediately on his tongue as well, so he decides to just blurt it all out. “I really appreciate how..chill you’re being about all of this. It’s even kinda..alarming. I was under the impression that you,” He makes an abstract gesture in the air. “Don’t really like me.”

Leo gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “Well, first of all, I don’t _dislike_ anybody. It takes too much energy. But yeah, you’re right,” He adds casually. “I’m not exactly your biggest fan.”

_Rude_. “Wow, thank you. Then why all this friendliness?”

Leo shrugs again. It seems to be his default response to anything. “You and Geri are practically the same in many aspects. It’s not difficult.”

Sergio narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like that. “Y’all keep saying it,” He points an accusing finger at Leo. “But I don’t see it.”

Leo smiles at him. “You will.” Sergio desperately searches for some kind of hint that he’s just teasing him, messing with his head. There is none.

 

-

 

“Leo?” Kun snaps his fingers in front of Leo’s face to get his attention. “Leeeo? You still here?”

Leo blinks. He realises he’s dozed off again. “Oh, yeah. Um, sorry.” He turns back to Kun and smiles at him apologetically. “What were you saying?”

He and Kun don’t see each other as much since the latter left Atléti, even though there is still international break. But they do have an unspoken rule between them that if Leo ever finds himself in England, or if Kun has to come to Spain for business, he picks up the phone and call the other.

“Leo, you’re worrying me.” Kun reaches his hand to ruffle Leo’s hair and laughs lightly. “What is it that you keep thinking about this whole time?”

Leo smiles guiltily. “No, it’s nothing. I’m sorry, Kun, please continue.”

His friend chuckles. “Nah, it’s nothing important, I was just ranting about Raheem and Leroy. C’mon.” He squeezes Leo’s arm amicably. “What is it that’s bugging you so much?”

Leo sighs. “Nah, it’s.. Sergio came over yesterday and after he left I kept thinking about the whole situation with him and Geri..” Leo’s eyes widen as soon as he realises what he just did. He turns to look at Kun, as if he can take his words back by the mere force of his stare. Leo isn’t used to keeping secrets, especially not from friends, and Kun is a special friend. He always feels relaxed around him and some things just slip.

“Leo..” Kun drawls slowly, watching him intently. “Which Sergio are you talking about?”

“Busi.” Leo replies weakly. “I was talking about Busi.” Kun isn’t buying it and he knows it. He never refers to Busi as Sergio, and moreover, if it really was him, there would no need for him to react like this. Kun knows it all, he isn’t an idiot.

Kun is studying him carefully. Leo is trying to come up quickly with some lie (even if he tells him the truth, Kun won’t believe him). He can practically hear Kun putting two and two together in his head. Something clicks. His eyes widen.

“ _No way_.”

Leo blinks innocently. “What?”

“I.” He raises a  hand to rub his forehead with an incredulous expression on his face. “Finally!” He exclaims suddenly. “I knew it would happen.”

“Kun?”

“How did I miss it..”

“Kun, you’re freaking me out.”

“Let me guess.” Kun turns to look at him with a satisfied grin on his face. “They switched bodies, Ramos and Gerard, after El Clásico.”

Leo’s breath catches in his throat. “How did you know..”

Kun laughs. “The same thing happened to me a few years ago. We played the Manchester Derby and when I woke up the next day.. Boom!” Kun laughs again. “I’m Wayne Rooney.”

Leo’s eyes widen. “No. Tell me you’re joking.”

Kun grins. “But it’s true!”

“But, I mean..” Leo tries to make sense of it all. It doesn’t sit right with him. “Why you and Rooney, I thought you two get along well?”

“It happens for different reasons.” Kun replies easily. “Me and Rooney.. Well, we had one of our own. The universe has it’s reasons, Leo, it knows what it’s doing. Don’t ever question the stars.”

Leo nods slowly. Alright, he won’t. “But, wait.” He sits upright in his chair. Does it mean.. “How did you solve it?”

“Oh,” Kun waves his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “Very easy.” Leo is aware of his heart in his chest, beating much faster than it should. Does Kun know how to solve it? “We switched back immediately after the next derby.”

Leo blinks. A laugh involuntarily escapes his mouth. “Literally that’s it? That’s the secret?”

“Wait, Leo.” Kun’s expression turns serious. “It’s not as simple as it sounds.” He moves his chair closer to Leo and leans in. Leo does the same.

“Look,” He begins, placing his hands on the table. “Each time a switch like this happens, it has some kind of reason, it happens in order to achieve a certain goal. The game is not what triggers the original switch, Leo, and it’s also not the one that will trigger the final one. The game is the deadline.”

Leo inhales sharply. “Deadline for what?”

Kun leans back into his chair. “This I can’t tell you, only they know. Did something happen after the Clásico maybe?”

Leo shakes his head slowly. “Not that I know.”

Kun crosses his arms. “Well, whatever it was, they should sort it out. Otherwise..”

“Otherwise what?”

Kun looks at him. Shrugs. “I don’t know, Leo. But I can promise you, it’s nothing good.”

 

-

 

“Leo?” Sergio is surprised to find him standing at his doorway at such an hour (it’s not really that late yet, but it’s certainly too late to show up at somebody’s door uninvited). No that he minds company that much. “Yes? Hi? Come in? Can I help you?”

Leo is panting lightly, like he’s been running. “Sergio, I.. I know. I found out. I know how to fix it.”

Sergio blinks. “What? How to fix what, Leo?”

Leo straightens up and looks up at him. “I talked with Kun and he told me that the same thing happened with him and Rooney a few years ago. And then he told me how to fix it.” A pause. “El Clásico. You’ll switch back after the next El Clásico.”

For a few long moments, Sergio is stunned into silence. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at him blankly. Then he breaks into a wide grin. “Leo, you’re the _best_.” He exclaims.

Leo just chuckles at that, but then Sergio skips over and envelopes him in a tight embrace. He locks his arms under Leo’s shoulders, picks him up, lifts him in the air and spins him around.

Leo yelps. “Put me down, Sergio! You’re gonna drop me and I’ll get injured, how will I explain it to Lucho!”

Sergio laughs but obeys, putting Leo back down on his feet. “Don’t worry, I only drop trophies, not people.” He wraps his arm around Leo and pulls him back into the hug, ruffling his hair with a hand. “I never noticed how tiny you actually are,” He coos. “It’s cuuute.”

Leo growls. “I’ll hit you, I’m not kidding. You and Geri are both the worst.”

Sergio tilts his head. “You don’t actually mean that.”

Leo raises an eyebrow. “Wanna test me, Ramos?”

Sergio laughs. “Ay, come on. Let’s go call Geri.”

 

-

 

“No way.” Cristiano stares at him. “For real?”

“Yes! Yes, dude, for real!” Geri has the widest of smiles on his face. Leo is simply incredible, period. They both tried their best to just ignore it and not let it show, but neither he nor Sergio could not let the real problem affect them. It’s scary, to think that you could get stuck like this forever. The new information may not directly change anything or quicken the process, but it does relieve a lot of the stress.

Cristiano’s face splits into a wide smile. “That’s amazing!” He exclaims. “I’m happy for you, Geri.” The forward pulls him into a hug he can’t resist.

“Oi, you’re just happy because you’ll finally get rid of me.”

Cristiano makes a face, like he’s thinking hard about something. “Well… Yes, you’re right.” He grins. “But hey, no, I really am happy for you.” He slaps him on the shoulder amicably. “But… I do have to ask you something.”

Geri nods. “Shoot.”

“Now that I think about it,” Cristiano begins thoughtfully. “I can recall Sergio briefly mentioning to me and Marcelo that you two bumped into each other after El Clásico..” He raises an eyebrow at Geri, trying to formulate his next question carefully. “Did something… Maybe.. Happen..? Something that could..trigger the switch?”

Geri huffs, trying to recall what exactly happened after El Clásico. “Oh, yeah. We did have a fight after El Clásico. Well, not really a fight.” He corrects himself. “Just.. You know. An encounter.” It wasn’t anything big, he already completely forgot about it by the time he woke up the next day, and he’s pretty sure that Ramos did the same.

Cristiano is visibly fighting the urge to make some kind of comment. “And… What did you.. Say to each other?”

“Uuuuh.” Geri looks up at the sky, like it has the answers he needs. “I think.. I said that I would rather die than be him? And he said he’s nothing like me? Or something of that sort.”

Cristiano manages to keep a straight face for only so much. He doubles over, letting out a bark of laughter that draws the attention of Marcelo and Modric, who are training just a few feet away from him.

“Oh god.” Cristiano grabs Geri’s arm to keep his balance. “They were right all along:” He grins at Geri. “Karma is a bitch.”

Geri frowns, struggling to free his arm from Cristiano’s grip. “I don’t see what you find so funny.”

Cristiano lets go of his arm and smirks, like he knows something Geri doesn’t. He kicks up the ball lying next to him on the grass and catches it in his hands. “You both said you would rather die than be.. The other. Yeah? And look!” He throws the ball up in the air and catches it again. “The next morning you wake up in each other’s bodies.” His smirk widens. “Agüero was right, the universe knows damn well what it’s doing.” He throws the ball to Geri who almost drops it, not expecting the sudden gesture. “You wanna switch back as soon as possible? Start training. We have the second leg against Celta soon. If we beat them maybe we can get Barça in the Copa semi-final, who knows.”

Geri has nothing to shoot back. He has a point.

 

And then Madrid loses to Celta.

Well, for the sake of correctness, they don’t lose, they draw, but they did lose the first leg, so on aggregate it comes out as a loss. The dressing room is quiet. They’re all disappointed. Geri would be lying if he said he isn’t feeling at least a bit disappointed as well. And it’s not only because now the closest Clásico will be either in the Champions League or all the way in April, in La Liga. Losing is never nice when you’re the one who does. And whether he wants it or not, Geri is a part of Madrid now. Temporarily.

He doesn’t really realise how much time passed but suddenly he’s aware of Cristiano standing next to him in the parking lot.

“You forgot this in the dressing rooms.” The forward takes something out of his pocket and places it in his hand. Geri looks at it: it’s a phone.

“Oh. Thanks, man.”

Cristiano watches him shove the phone into the back pocket of his sweats. “Call Sergio.” He says.

Geri shoots him an annoyed look. “Why are you and Leo both such nosy asses?” He regrets how harsh it came out as soon as he says it. Cristiano looks tired, both mentally and physically, he’s clearly not in the mood for arguing.

“Because you should.” He responds patiently. “Both for his sake and your own. But you two won’t if we don’t push you.”

Geri doesn’t answer straight away. He pulls his phone back out, turning it around in his hands. “Nah, man.” He shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. “He’s probably not in the mood to talk anyway.”

Cristiano is of a different opinion. He sighs, leaning against the cold wall behind them. “Look.” He starts. “Sergio.. He loves Madrid. He lives and breathes this club, he puts it above anything else. It’s the only constant in his life, like Barça is in yours.” Cristiano looks up to meet Geri’s gaze. Geri is glad he didn’t take him out of the picture, didn’t make it seem like Ramos is the only victim in this situation. “Taking it away from him like this is.. Cruel. But you.” The forward points a finger at his chest. “You are the only thing that connects him to the club right now. You are his way to feel he’s still somehow included. So don’t be an ass and call him. Talk about Crackòvia or some shit, I don’t know.”

Geri’s fingers are playing with the zipper of his coat, pulling it down and back up. “You should’ve become a psychologist.” He jokes, just because the atmosphere is way too serious for him to handle right now.

Cristiano shoots him a crooked smile. “I really shouldn’t. I’m only doing this because Sergio is my friend and I care about him. And about you too.” He punches Geri’s shoulder lightly. “Even if you’re a complete dick most of the time.”

Geri rolls his eyes. “Look who’s talking, Cristiano Ronaldo.”

The Portuguese grins. “Good, good. At least you still know my full name.”

 

Ramos does, indeed, answer, which is honestly sort of a surprise for Geri.

“Hey.” He drawls quietly.

Geri tells himself to not respond, to not say anything, to let Ramos speak first, his team just lost, he needs it.

Instead, he blurts out: “Guess you won’t be winning the treble this year either.” He doesn’t know what pushed him to say it, what was pulling at his tongue. But now it’s out there and he can’t take it back. He expects Ramos to just hang up on him. But he doesn’t.

“Oh, puh-lease.” Ramos snorts. “Treble is a concept invented by sad culés who can’t win more than five Champions trophies. We’re Madrid, we don’t need your treble.”

Geri opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Out of all the possible responses, this was probably the one he was waiting for the least. When did Ramos learn how to come up with such clever comebacks. “I.. You.. You’re just jealous.” It’s a lame reply, he knows it.

“Geri, didn’t you hear me? We’re _Madrid_. We don’t need no trebles.” He sounds pleased with himself. “And moreover, it just shows how nice we are, humble. We want to give other teams a chance too. Unlike you, greedy blaugranas.”

Geri scoffs. “Sure, sure, keep telling yourself that.” Somehow, he imagined Ramos would be more crushed about losing the Copa. But he doesn’t sound all that heartbroken. A bit, maybe, but he still sounds positively confident in the future of their season. Geri probably shouldn’t be feeling relief because of it. “What do you think abou the match, though, seriously?”

Ramos exhales slowly. “Well, what can I say? Disappointing. Although, I’m not really disappointed about the loss itself. I’m disappointed because I know we’re better than that.” Geri gets what he’s talking about. It happens sometimes - all you need is a one or two goal lead, but even if all the chances are in your favour, sometimes you end up losing. That’s the beauty of football, you never know.

“Obviously, I want all the trophies possible.” Ramos goes on. “But maybe it’s a good thing that we’ll be able to focus on La Liga and the Champions.”

Geri hums in agreement. “Yeah, huh. Who did you draw again?”

“Napoli.”

Geri snorts. “Of course. Always getting the easy ones.”

Ramos groans and Geri can vividly picture him rolling his eyes. “Yah, sure thing, you smartass. And who did _you_ draw? Bayern Munich?”

“PSG.”

“See? Not so bad yourself. Doubt you’re gonna have any problems.”

“Yeah, you think so?”

“Sure. I mean, it’s just PSG. The scariest thing about them is Zlatan and Thiago Silva. Zlatan left and Silva won’t be playing in the first leg. What could possibly happen.”

“Dunno.” Geri frowns. “They’ve been pretty good lately.”

“Nah, dude. You got it, easy.”

 

He was wrong. He was so, so wrong.

Geri sits in front of the tv, numb, forced to watch as PSG put in one goal, after another, after another, until it’s a firm 2-0 by the end of the first half. Geri isn’t worried, not yet, they can do that, easily. There’s thirty minutes, they’ll score two goals, park the bus and then beat the French at their own stadium. Except they don’t. The second half is even worse than the first. They concede the third goal, then another one. By the time the final whistle blows there’s a firm 4-0 on the scoreboard.

Geri feels sick. It’s not just the loss itself, the fact that he wasn’t there, with the team, is the most devastating part of it all. That he had to watch it here, sitting on the couch comfortably, while Leo, Ney, Mats and the rest of his teammates fought; fought for the club, for the badge, for the colours, for the honour. And he didn’t. He couldn’t do anything to prevent it.

He’s still sitting there, staring at the tv, when the game minutes end and the match analysis begins. There’s a bunch of important-looking men in suits gathered around the table, talking about how Barça is dying, about how it’s not what it used to be anymore, how they don’t ever win anything anymore. None if it really reaches Geri.

He doesn’t know how much time exactly passes, but at a certain moment he finds it in himself to turn off the tv, get up from the couch and return to his room. Before getting into bed Geri checks his phone - there’s a text from Cristiano. Two missed calls from Leo. Three from Sergio.

Geri wants to call back. He goes to sleep instead.

 

He wakes up much earlier than he usually does, there’s still barely any light in the room, but it’s not dark anymore, so he figures he probably has another an hour or so to nap before he has to wake up, drag himself to training and face all the jokes there will probably be in the dressing room about Barcelona’s performance last night. Geri reaches his hand to the nightstand, blindly searching for his phone on it. Once he can feel it under his hand he grabs it and pulls it closer to his face. He unlocks the phone to check the time but instead he’s faced with a whatsapp notification - you have a new voice message from Ramos. Geri wants to go back to sleep. He opens it instead.

The first ten seconds is complete silence. Geri start wondering if it’s some kind of system error or a mistake, but then Sergio’s voice is heard through the phone’s speakers. “You know, I just want you to know that it’s really childish of you. I really thought you’re better than this. I mean, I know the Copa and the Champions aren’t exactly the same thing, but still. You didn’t even lose yet, there’s the second leg. So they scored four goals, big deal! Or do you really have this little faith in your team?” There are practically no pauses between the sentences. Geri wonders when Sergio had the time to breathe when he was recording the message. “And yet, when Madrid lost to Celta, was I sad? Yes. Did I ignore you? No. And I was expecting the same treatment. But no, you egocentric ass. Jesus, Geri, I get it that you don’t like me but you could’ve at least called Leo! The guy was all heartbroken about it. Wait, why does it say I only have five seconds left… I didn’t even say half of the things I--” The message ends there.

Despite the best of him, Geri can’t help the amused curl of his lips. Listening to Sergio rant is always entertaining. He clicks the call button. He doesn’t really expect Sergio to pick up considering how early it is, and yet he does.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Silence.

“So I get it that you got my voice message?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

More silence. Then, “So.. Guess you won’t be winning the treble this year either, huh?”

Geri rolls his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

 

It happens after one of the Liga games. Sergio calls him; at first Geri wants to crack some kind of joke but then the Sevillian speaks up and his voice sounds uncharacteristically alarmed.

“Got a minute? It’s important.”

“Gimme a sec, I’m just gonna get out of the dressing room. Don’t hang up.”

He covers the phone with his hand and stands up, trying to make his way out of the room back into the tunnel. His leave always manages to go unnoticed, but it fails to escape Cristiano’s attentive eye. The Portuguese catches his gaze from across the room where he’s joking around about something with Marcelo and Vázquez. He raises his eyebrows in question, probably noticing the troubled expression on Geri’s face. _All good?_

Geri twirls his wrist abstractly and gestures at the phone. _Dunno yet._

Cristiano leans to whisper something to Pepe, smiles at Marcelo and slaps Vázquez on the back. He quickly pulls a tee over his naked chest, grabs his phone from the bag, makes his excuses and leaves the dressing room, following Geri into the tunnel.

“What is it?” He asks him the moment the door closes behind them, muffling the loud cheers and noises.

Instead of answering Geri puts the phone on speaker and places it between him and Cristiano. “Talk, Ramos.”

“Alright. So.” Sergio inhales a deep breath, like he always does when he’s about to say something very long and doesn’t want to be interrupted. “The press are on it.”

“How do you know?”

Sergio huffs in irritation at being interrupted right after the first sentence. “If only you _listened_ , you would know.”

“You aren’t saying anything.”

“You aren’t letting me.”

“I’m letting you now.”

Sergio makes a displeased sound at the back of his throat. “So. As I was saying. There was this journalist, she caught me outside of the car after training. She was.. Well, I’m not gonna start quoting the whole conversation now but it was all pretty suspicious, I’m not just being paranoid.”

“Sergio is right.” Cristiano, who’s been listening to their conversation quietly this whole time speaks up. “If Agüero and Rooney know about it, if all their friends know-- And assuming it’s not just a football-limited thing.. A lot of people may be aware. There may be people who specialise in finding these cases.”

Geri bites his lips and runs a hand through his hair. Now that he put it like that.. He’s suddenly feeling very thankful they decided to add Leo and Cristiano into the story, the two forwards bring some rationality into this whole mess. He and Sergio are so transfixed on getting on each other’s nerves and dealing with all the sudden changes around them, they simply don’t have enough energy to deal with the important parts. There are certain things they would get to if it wasn’t for their two teammates.

“So..” Sergio is the one who breaks the silence. “What do you suggest us to do?”

Cristiano’s solution is ridiculously simple, yet makes a lot of sense. “Do something to make their doubts go away. Do something Piqué-like.”

Geri turns to look at Cristiano with a confused frown. “What do you mean by Piqué-like?”

Cristiano shrugs. “I know? Post some shit about Madrid on twitter.”

Geri makes a sarcastic laugh. “Very funny, now really--”

“Actually,” Sergio’s voice interrupts him. “Cristiano’s idea is really good.”

Cristiano smirks at him, eyebrows raised. _See?_

Geri stares at him for a few seconds, then at the phone, then at Cristiano again. “You two aren’t serious, are you? Is that the thing you associate with me the most, tweets?”

“Yes.” The two reply simultaneously.

Geri scoffs. “I don’t see how that’s--”

“Come on, Geri!” Sergio insists. “You just played, didn’t you? Can’t you send me some kind of conspiracy theory about how Perez payed the refs and I’ll post it on your twitter?”

Geri wants to make a face but Sergio won’t be here to see it so he decides against it (making it just for Cristiano is simply not worth it). “Do you think it’s _easy_ to come up with conspiracy theories right on the spot?”

“Oh, please.” Cristiano smirks at him smugly. “Aren’t you the one who always complains about Madrid being treated differently?”

“Exactly!” Sergio chimes in. “Isn’t Madrid some kind of rich kid who gets away with anything because he’s the teacher’s favourite? If it’s true you shouldn’t have a problem coming up with anything on the spot, _El Presidente._ ”

Apparently he’s not the only one who knows how to push buttons. Geri squints at the screen. “Alright.” He states. “I accept your challenge.” He stretches his hand out. “Gimme your phone, Ronaldo. Let’s prove Madrid buys refs.” Cristiano pulls out his phone from his pocket and hands it to him.

It takes Geri exactly five minutes to dig up an article about his falsely denied goal against Málaga earlier in November and another one about the involuntary handball. He puts the four images together for comparison and hand the phone back to Cristiano. It’s Geri’s turn to smirk. “Violá!”

Cristiano is seemingly unbothered by what he sees. “Not bad, Piqué.” He says, nodding as his eyes study the screenshots. “I’m sending then to Sergio then?”

“Yeah.”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line as Sergio exists the call app to check the message Cristiano sent him. There’s silence and then a loud series of cursing. “The fuck is this crap, Piqué?” He mutters angrily. “This is absolute _bulshit_ and you know it.”

Geri’s face splits into the widest of grins. “These are official facts.” He states smugly. “Taken from a _Madrid_ site, by the way. This isn’t Catalan media.”

Sergio huffs and Geri can clearly picture him throwing his arms up, like he always does when he’s frustrated. “This is a bunch of fucking bulshit!” He retorts. “I’m not posting this. Cris, tell Piqué that he’s a fucking asshole and that I’m not posting these.”

Cristiano sighs. He doesn’t look annoyed, just impatient. “Geri, Sergio said that he’s not posting these.”

“And that he’s a fucking asshole.”

Cristiano presses his lisp together. _Now_ he looks annoyed. “And that you’re a fucking asshole.”

It does nothing but make Geri’s grin even wider. It brings him some kind of unexplainable satisfaction, knowing that he can make Sergio this angry without even trying that hard. It’s not the same kind of satisfaction he gets when they win a game or when he beats Leo at Fifa. It’s different. “Well, tell him that you asked me to make one yourself so I don’t know why he’s so angry.”

“I meant some of your _usual_ stuff, something light! Not a whole..” Sergio pauses, struggling to find the right word. “..Essay about Barcelona and Madrid that will start another war on twitter. We _got it_ , you hate Madrid, you hate me. No need to be so loud about it.”

Silence. Cristiano glances at the phone, then at Geri. “I don’t know, Sergio. It looks pretty good to me.”

“ _What?_ ” Sergio sounds positively scandalised.

“I mean, look. We want something Piqué-like. Isn’t this Piqué-like enough?”

“Well..” Sergio is clearly struggling to find a good comeback. In the end he finally surrenders and give in. “Fine. I’ll post it now. But Piqué is still an asshole. Tell him I’ll call him before the game against Celta. Bye.” Sergio hangs up.

Geri looks at the screen. He can still hear Sergio’s infuriated voice in his head. It’s oddly satisfying. Geri catches Cristiano looking at him funny. “What?” He snaps.

“Nothing, just-” The Portuguese throws his head back and laughs. “You look so pleased, god help me.”

Geri scoffs. “Damn right. Nothing makes me as happy as an angry Ramos.”

Cristiano keeps watching him with an unreadable expression. “I think nothing makes you as happy as Ramos paying attention to you.”

Geri narrows his eyes. “And I think you should fuck off.”

Cristiano chuckles. “Fine. Keep leaving in denial.” He throws an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go, the press is waiting.”

 

The moment he enters the conference room it’s like the journalists are trying to make him drown in their questions. Most of them are repetitive, the ones he’s used to: how was the game? The goals? The squad? Does he think they can beat Celta and go through to the Copa semi-final despite Celta’s advantage?

And then it comes. What does he think and the tweet?

Geri blinks in, what he hopes is, innocence and asks what tweet are they talking about. One of the journalists then proceeds to pull out his phone and read the caption for him, showing the screenshots Geri himself took mere ten minutes ago.

“Oh, really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Who posted it?”

“Piqué.” One of the younger reporters chimes in.

Geri scoffs. “Piqué. Well, that’s not surprising.” It’s weird, talking about yourself like this, as if you’re a completely different person. “I would be surprised if, say, Messi posted something like that, but Piqué.. I think we all already know what world he lives in.”

That seems to satisfy the press. With the corner of his eye, Geri can see Cristiano visibly struggling to keep his cool. When they leave the room the forward whispers. “That’s a nice self-satire you did over there. Sergio must be proud.”

 

What Geri thought would be the hardest part turns out to be the easier part. The hardest part comes later, in the dressing room the next day, as they’re all discussing his tweet.

“Not to sound harsh but he really needs to learn when to speak and when to stay in his lane.” Pepe grumbles angrily. “Right?” He turns to look at Coentrao and Marcelo. The former appears to be half-sleeping while Marcelo just throws his arms in the air, as if saying _I’m not participating in this_.

“Don’t be so mean, guys.”

“Yeah,” Isco chimes in. “It shouldn’t bother us what Piqué thinks.”

Geri just sits next to his locker, watching the events unfold. He feels like an undercover spy. The feeling is both thrilling and terrifying. He knows that he’s probably the first person they expect a reaction from, but he can’t bring himself to say anything.

“Isco is right, it shouldn’t.” Carvajal steps into the middle of the room to get the attention of more people. “Honestly, I don’t know why Piqué is so preoccupied with how Madrid is doing.. If I were him I’d be more worried about how his team is gonna score five goals against PSG next week.” It’s like a slap in the face.

That earns him a series approving cheers from some of the teammates. Some, like Pepe and Casemiro, agree energetically, their words accompanied by exclamations and hand gestures. Some, like Marcelo and James, look slightly uncomfortable, not really knowing where to put themselves in this conflict. Others, like Kroos and Modric, seem to not be extremely interested in all the gossip.

“Am I right, Sergio?” Carvajal elbows him, lips curled in a pleased grin. Geri wants to wipe it off his face. He feels like he’s going to explode. He knows he shouldn’t, he mustn’t, knows it’s a bad idea, but the blood in his veins starts boiling and he can’t control his mouth anymore.

“Actually, I’ll let you know--”

There’s a loud crash of metal hitting the ground and various items scatter around the floor. Everybody stops whatever they’re doing and look at the corner of the room. Cristiano is standing there, arms up in the air. Below him is a large, white, metal shelf. “Oh my god, guys. I’m so incredibly sorry.” He says, in the least credible tone Geri’s ever heard him use.

“Cris!” Marcelo exclaims in annoyance, stomping over to where the other is standing. “I can’t believe you, it took me hours to put it all in order! You’ll have to stay here after training and fix it!”

“For you, anything.” Cristiano returns to his locker to grab his training sweatshirt. When their gazes cross he widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. _What were you thinking?_

 

When he tells Sergio what happened the Sevillian laughs. “Well, you gotta admit.. Dani has a point!”

Geri scoffs. “No he doesn’t! That was rude and unnecessary.”

Sergio laughs some more. “But hey, real talk? Don’t stress, I have a good feeling about this game. We can handle it.” There’s a pause, a series of quiet, muffled curses, and the Sergio speaks up again. “Did I just refer to Barça as ‘we’? This is so fucked up.”

Geri smirks. “Slowly turning blaugrana, aren’t you, Ramos?”

“Fuck you. But no, I’m serious about the second leg.”

Geri pauses. He wants to believe Sergio, wants to have faith in his team, but he also wants to remain realistic. What are their chances, to be completely honest here? He doesn’t want to get his hopes too high. Because the higher they are, the more painful the fall will feel if they fail. “Yeah, you think so?”

“Of course!” Sergio sounds so confident. “Everybody wants revenge, Neymar is all pumped to score a bunch of goals against them.. Didn’t you see his Insta? One perfect chance, ninety nine percent faith.”

Geri grins. Of course he did. “Alright. Ninety nine percent faith.” Better to believe and get hurt than not let himself believe at all, he figures. This is Barcelona, they can do that. “I really hope you aren’t wrong.”

 

He isn’t. This time, he isn’t wrong.

They completely dominate the first half; Luis scores in the very first minutes of the match, followed by an own goal by one of the PSG players - luck seems to be on their side this time. Then Leo scores early in the second half; PSG tries to fight back by putting in a goal by Cavani, but they don’t get much time to breathe, seeing how Neymar manages to give Barça two more goals, late in the second half. One goal. They need one goal to win.

“Come on!” Geri screams at his tv, like they can actually hear him. His throat is a bit sore from all the screaming he’s done today and his voice sounds slightly hoarse. There’s a mix of intense emotions swirling inside his chest, as if he’s really out there on the pitch with them, in the latest of minuets..

Sergi scores. Neymar passes the ball into the penalty box and Sergi scores. He scores; and beautifully so. Camp Nou erupts into screams and so does Geri. It’s a beautiful sight: the stadium he loves, the place he calls home, blindingly blaugrana, people waving red and blue flags all around the stands. Geri feels his heart clench in his chest. He’s pretty sure he can feel his eyes tear up.

“I’m going to kiss the fuck out of Sergi as soon as I’m back.” He whispers aloud, making it an official promise.

It doesn’t take long for Sergio to call him. “Duuude, did you see that?” There are muffled sounds of cheers and loud voices talking in the background, Geri thinks he can even distinguish one of Neymar’s favourite songs playing (they’re probably dancing).

“I did… God, I did.”

“That guy, Roberto!” He exclaims, the astonishment clear in his voice. “I told you we, Sergios, have a thing for scoring in the last minute. It’s probably genetical, something you get at birth.”

Geri laughs at the absurdity of the statement. “His name is Sergi, not Sergio. It’s Sergi, Sergi Roberto.”

“Well, eh.” Sergio says dismissively. “Isn’t Sergi just a Catalan version of Sergio?”

That makes Geri laugh. “Fine, fine..” He says, shaking his head to himself. His mood is way too good to be arguing with Sergio right now, even if it’s just teasing. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

There’s no sound, but Geri can clearly imagine the grin on Sergio’s face right now, wide and bright, threatening to split his face in two. He wishes he was there to see it, to hug Leo, to congratulate Ney, to squeeze Sergi in a tight embrace until they both have trouble breathing.

“Nah, man.” Sergio says. “I’m just glad you don’t sound like your entire family was killed by a tsunami anymore.”

Geri snorts. It’s a strangely accurate description. “Thanks I guess.”

 

International break.

Geri repeats the word in his head, trying to figure out what emotions it brings out in him.

International break. La Selección. Spain. Sergio Ramos.

He used to be neutral about it - he never disliked international football but he also can’t say he prefers it over club football. Those are two different things, both equally enjoyable, he feels no need to compare them.

But this time. This time it almost feels like a relief. He’ll finally find himself in an environment he’s used to, one he knows, one he likes. There won’t be faces he doesn’t know anymore, jokes he doesn’t understand. He’s still Sergio and Sergio is still him but when they’re with La Selección, it kind of feels like they don’t have to pretend anymore.

Once he’s out of the bus the press surrounds him, showering him with questions about the future or La Roja, the upcoming World Cup in Russia, the condition the squad is in.

“What do you think about the situation with some of the teammates who..” Geri looks at the woman. Her question is worded very carefully, not a single direct hint, but the message is very clear, one doesn’t need to be a genius to decode it. Geri has neither the time, not the energy for this bullshit. “You mean Piqué?” He asks bluntly.

The rest of the journalists laugh. Geri smiles at them, just to be polite.

“Well,” He wonders what Sergio would say in this situation (he definitely would, so far Sergio’s never missed a single chance to talk about him). “Me and Piqué like to throw stones at each other. But right now I’m gonna go and give him a hug.” The reporters seem satisfied. Geri nods and politely excuses himself.

 

When he arrives to the facility Sergio is already waiting there for him, leaning against one of the metal posts. Geri takes off his sunglasses. He and Sergio have been talking regularly lately - he would even dare to go as far as to say every day - but now that he thinks about it, they haven’t actually seen each other in… Months. Geri thinks back to the last time they met, during the Nike event, and calculate the period of time from there to now. Yeah.. Months.

Sergio’s hands are tucked in the pockets of his pants, one foot is pulled up high, resting against the wall.

“Sooo,” He drawls, cocking his head to the side when Geri is close enough to hear him. “Where is my hug?”

Geri raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Sergio grins. “You told the reporters you’re gonna go give me a hug. Well, I’m waiting.”

Geri has no idea how the hell Sergio managed to get that information so fast, but he doesn’t mind. His own mouth curls into a grin as well. “Well,” He drops his duffel bag to the ground and spreads his arms out. “Come and take it then.”

 

“Do you already know who you’re rooming up with?” Sergio asks him as they’re making their way over to the hotel lobby, where some of the squad members are already waiting.

“Mmmm, not sure, yeah.” Geri replies thoughtfully. He usually rooms up with Cesc, but the midfielder wasn’t called up this time so it’s not really an option. “I think Busi and Jordi wanna stay together, I talked to Pedro but he said he’ll see because it depends on who Costa is rooming with.”

Sergio huffs. “Yeah, man, I’m in a similar situation. Isco and Álvaro are basically inseparable and Dani already agreed with Nacho.” He places a hand over his chest in mock-hurt. “Can you believe they abandoned their captain like that?” He exclaims dramatically. They walk a couple of moments in silence and then something in Sergio’s mind seems to click because suddenly he stops in his tracks and turns to look at Geri, who’s forced to stop walking as well.

“Dude. I just had the best idea ever.”

Considering it’s Sergio proposing the idea, Geri doubts it will be that good, but he’s willing to give it a shot. “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

“Nando and Cesc didn’t get called up. And the rest of our club teammates already have plans. So. Let’s room up together. You and me.” He spreads his hands out meaningfully, like he just came up with a solution to world hunger. “This way we also won’t have to worry about pretending and shit, you know.”

Geri actually considers the proposal. “You know what..” He says finally. “That’s actually not such a horrible idea. Good job, Ramos.”

Sergio clicks his tongue and hits him on the back of his head lightly. “You’re saying it like my ideas are usually bad.”  
“They usually are.”

Sergio raises his fist in the air threateningly, even though both of them know he isn’t going to use it. “Be careful, Piqué. I’m the taller one now.”

Geri snorts. “Enjoying my height, huh?”

Sergio grins. “Oh hell yeah.”

 

-

 

“Okay, so.” Sergio places his hands on the table, trying to make an order out of the facts he already knows. “I’m not a footballer, but I’m related to the world of football. I’m frequently associated with Madrid and Satan. Nobody likes me. And right now I’m in England.” He frowns in concentration, trying to figure out what he’s missing out.

He and Geri are sitting around one of the tables in the hotel’s dining room. Geri is sitting across from him. He has a piece of paper stuck to his forehead, Iker’s name is written on it with Sergio’s messy writing. Sergio has a sticky note with somebody’s name on his forehead as well, but he doesn’t know what it says.

“Umm. Rafa Benitez?” He tries.

Geri shakes his head. “Nope, my turn.”

Sergio clicks his tongue in disappointment, it’s his third attempt already. Apparently there’s quite a lot of people everybody hates who are frequently associated with Madrid but right now are in England. Interesting.

Geri drums his fingers against the table’s surface. He turned out to be surprisingly good at Who Am I, last round Sergio chose Cristiano and he guessed it after three attempts only.

“Did I play in Madrid?”

Sergio gives an affirmative nod.

“Do I not play there anymore?”

Sergio nods again.

“But I did not retire yet, right?”

A nod, once again.

Geri bites his bottom lip in concentration. “How old am I?”

Sergio is about to answer but stops himself in time. “Hey, you can only ask question of yes and no.”

“C’mon, dude, please.” Geri gives him an innocent smile. “That’s a lot of people! I need to know the age.” Once he realises Sergio is not going to give in, he leans back in his chair and says. “Fine. At least tell me the date of birth.”

Sergio considers it a for moment. He doubts Geri knows Iker’s exact birthday anyway. “20th of May.”

“Yeah, but..” Geri waves his hand, urging him to continue. “What year?”

Sergio squints at him and leans closer. What kind of question is that? “Every year.”

Iniesta comes into the room, wearing the full Spain kit and a pair of Adidas slippers. He looks lost for a couple of moments before asking. “Do you guys know where I can find a coffee machine?” Geri points at the now empty breakfast table with his thumb. “Thanks, Sergio.” He’s made half the way to the table when he stops suddenly, looking at Sergio in confusion. “Um. Geri.” He says slowly. Iniesta brings a hand to own his forehead. “Why do you have… José Mourinho written on your forehead?”

Geri throws his arms up in the air. “Good job, Andrés! You ruined the game!” He exclaims.

Sergio gapes at him. “So it was Mourinho?” He tears the note off his forehead to check it. Mourinho indeed. “Dude I forgot about him.”

Iniesta glances at him, then at Geri, then at him again. “Do you want coffee?”

 

“Forty seven, forty eight, forty nine… Come on, just one more! Fifty!” Geri grabs both his hands, pulling him upright. “Good, you beat Jordi!”

Sergio lets out a pained groan and collapses back onto the grass. His stomach muscles feel like they’re on fire. “Oh god.. God, dude, god, jesus fuck, god help me..” He rolls onto his back and covers his face with his arm. “I killed my stomach. Tell Israel I’m sorry but I can’t play.”

Geri claps his hands together encouragingly. “C’mon, dude, gotta work hard if you wanna have abs like Ronaldo.”

Sergio glares at him. “I don’t need abs like Ronaldo’s. I only need strong, tapped legs so I can tackle assholes like you.” He stretches his leg out and pushes the back of Geri’s leg with it, being careful to hit the calf and not a sensitive area. It makes Geri lose his balance and the next moment he’s down on the ground, next to him.

He rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow, and points an accusing finger in Sergio’s direction. “This is a war, García!”

Geri reaches both his hands to grab his jersey and Sergio is forced to throw his arms forward to protect himself. “Woah, no fists!” He warns.

“Alright,” Geri switches to a different tactic. He grasps him by the ankle and pulls it to him, fingers tugging at the laces of his boots. “Were you saying something about your strong, tapped legs?”

Sergio laughs. “Hey, leave my boots alone, you bully.”

At a certain point they both become aware of four pair of eyes on them. Alba, Busquets, Álvaro and Isco are all standing a few meters away from them, wearing all kinds of different facial expressions.

“Do you think they’re just messing around or actually trying to kill each other?” Busquets asks carefully.

Álvaro shakes his head. “I really can’t tell..”

“Maybe we should bring them some stones. So they can, you know,” Alba makes a throwing gesture with his hand. “Throw them at each other.”

Isco and Busquets both double over with laughter, Álvaro tries to act annoyed but the twitch of his lips isn’t lying.

Geri clicks his tongue. “Look at that! People don’t believe we can have normal, civil conversations.”

“Well.. They aren’t wrong.” Sergio points out. He just tackled Geri to the ground and then the other violently tried to attack his boots. Normal and civil aren’t exactly the best description words for that. “What we’re having is not exactly a normal, civil conversation.”

“Yeah but I mean, we can. If we want to.” Geri brings both his hands to his face, putting them around his mouth and yells at the four. “Come here and join if you’re so brave or get out!”

While Geri is busy exchanging insults with Alba and the others Sergio takes a moment to study him closely, look at the situation they ended up at, think it over, turn it around in his hands a bit to see different sides as well. They’ve never been as close as they are now, at this point. It’s nice. If Sergio thought he liked coming up with sassy comebacks to Geri’s statements and watching his face grow from pleased to angry, then he likes this even more. Who could’ve thought that just playing Who Am I in the dining room and wrestling on the grass could be so fun. It’s a good feeling and Sergio doesn’t want to let go of it.

“Hey, wanna hear something Leo taught me?”

Geri nods. “Shoot.”

Sergio waits a few seconds for the dramatic effect. Exhales. Inhales. Then finally, “T’odio, cabró.”

For a moment Geri doesn’t say anything. “I can’t believe you!” He exclaims then, throwing his arms up. “Like, you sat there with Leo, learning Catalan, and you could ask him anything - and I mean _anything_. And out of all the options you had you chose ‘I hate you, asshole’. I just… Don’t understand how your mind works.”

Sergio laughs loudly. This was the reaction he was waiting for. “I learned it especially for you, Geri!” He insists. “This way it has a special meaning. It describes my feelings to you in the most perfect way possible.”

Geri snorts. He places a hand on Sergio’s cheek and pushes his head sideways. “Go away.”

Sergio laughs, shrugging Geri’s hand off. “Never.”

 

They celebrate the win against France together, the whole squad.

They go to a bar: those who can sing sing, those who can dance dance, those who can’t just act like they do and ignore the hysterical giggles of their teammates. They all drink.

Sergio admits, he might’ve had a tiny bit too much. He completely loses any sense of orientation.

“Guys, guys!” He yells loudly, climbing on top of a billiard table. “I call for a toast.”

Geri tugs on the sleeve of his pants, desperately trying to get him to stop. “Sergio, _please_.” He hisses.

Sergio has no plans of stopping. He raises his tequila glass. “I, the captain of La Roja, raise this glass for all the wins there were, are, and will be.” His words are slurring together but he keeps speaking. “Amen we win the World Cup!”

There are all kind of reactions.

Carvajal snorts. “The captain of La Roja?” He quotes. “Since when is Piqué the captain of La Roja? Captain, my ass.”

“Oh god.” Álvaro clasps a hand over his mouth. He elbows Geri lightly. “Is he mimicking you, Sergio?”

“He is!” Jordi cries out. He laughs loudly, clapping his hands together.

Geri feels like he’s going to die on the spot from second hand embarrassment. It’s even worse than second hand embarrassment because everybody thinks that it’s _him_ doing it, when in reality it’s just Sergio being his usual embarrassing self.

He crosses his arms on the table and buries his face in them. “It’s fine.” He mumbles, the words barely audible. “He can be the captain for tonight, I don’t mind.”

Sergio doesn’t stop there. “We’re gonna go to Russia and beat everyone so hard Siberia and Alaska will move and connect.”

“Actually,” Koke intervenes. “Now that you and Ramos seem to be getting along pretty well we might actually have a chance to win the World Cup.”

Sergio is staggering on the table, like a ship in a storm that lost its balance. He will end up hitting his head or something this way. “What are you talking about?” Sergio is gradually taking steps backwards, slowly getting dangerously close to the edge of the billiard table.

Geri decides that if he doesn't do something soon he’s going to get a heart attack just from watching him. He gets off his seat and quickly makes his way over to the table Sergio is standing on. He places his hands on Sergio’s legs, just a bit above the knees, so the other doesn’t fall. “For the love of god, be careful.” He mutters. “Actually, get back down. Now. Hey!”

Geri tugs on his sleeve until Sergio agrees to bend down and jump off the table. It’s like dealing with a stubborn toddler, only 194 centimeters tall. Sergio is still wobbling, so Geri has to wrap an arm around his back to help him maintain his balance.

Meanwhile, Sergio keeps speaking to Koke. “Me and Piqué are best friends!” He exclaims happily, putting an arm around Geri’s neck. “Right, Geri?” He turns to look at him with a happy, drunk smile.

Geri responds with a sarcastic smile. “Not for long.” He mutters.

Jordi snorts. “‘Me and Piqué’. Geri, you’re _really_ drunk, aren’t you?”

Sergio places a hand over his chest, offended. “I am _not_ Geri.” He states. “I am Sergio Maros Gracía.” He frowns. “I mean- Ramos. Ramos García.”

“Alright, everybody!” Geri keeps one hand around Sergio so he doesn’t collapse and uses the other to snap his fingers and draw everybody's attention. “Me and Piqué are gonna go outside to breathe some fresh air. Keep having fun! Bye, love you all!” He grabs Sergio’s wrist and drags him outside quickly, before any more questions can come.

“Oh god..” The moment they’re outside he leans against the wall, burying his face in his hands, and sinks down to the floor. He’s never felt this embarrassed for somebody in his entire life. He swears to hunt down whoever let Sergio drink this much and choke him with his bare hands. “Oh _god_.”

Sergio sits down (well, more like clumsily collapses) next to him. “Geri,” He drawls.

“Mhmm?”

“Isn’t it El Clásico soon?”

Geri lets his hands drop to his sides. He turns his head to look at Sergio. “Well, not exactly soon. In April.”

Sergio frowns. “And what month is it now?”

Geri sighs impatiently. “March.”

“Oh.” Sergio slides further down the wall into a half-lying, half-sitting position. “Well, that’s soon.”

Geri shrugs and looks away. “If you say so.”

They’re both silent for a while, the quiet atmosphere interrupted only by Sergio’s occasional yawns. Suddenly he mumbles. “Maybe I should get injured so I don’t have to play.”

Geri blinks, taken aback by the sudden statement. “What? Why?” He turns to look at Sergio again.

“Because-” Sergio yawns again, not bothering to cover it with a hand. “...because then we’ll switch back. And if we switch back you’re gonna hate me again.”

Geri is surprised by the honesty of it. He can’t help wondering if it’s just the alcohol making him say that, or if he would still do it even in a sober state. “I.. Won’t hate you.”

Sergio raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you sure?”

Geri is sure only about one thing right now: he isn’t nearly drunk enough for this conversation. Instead of answering he decides to reverse the question. “And you? Will you go back to hating me when it’s finally over?”

Sergio presses his lips together thoughtfully. “I never hated you to begin with.” He states after a moment. “I just really, really, really, really, _really_ disliked you.”

Geri laughs. “That _is_ called hating, idiot.”

“No it isn’t.” Sergio retorts stubbornly. “It’s different. And moreover. Now I _just_ dislike you, without the really part. T’odio. But just a bit.”

Geri chuckles, failing to hide his amusement. “Fine.” He huffs. “Then we’re good.”

 

-

 

Matchday arrives. Not just any other matchday - El Clásico itself. Everything is a mess, a mix of emotions; loud fans shouting in the streets, papers comparing statistics, journalists discussing chances; nobody can keep track of what’s happening anymore.

The day passes by in an orderless swirl, everything mixing up together into a huge, unsorted bundle, it’s like they’re all in a dream-like state. The first thing throughout the day that feels real is the tunnel in the Bernabéu. They’re all standing inside it, impatient to go out onto the pitch and play, win, prove themselves.

Sergio and Geri search for each other in the crowd. Sergio catches Geri’s gaze and blinks at him twice. Geri nods in acknowledgment. They search for the two forwards then, the stars of the game - Sergio looks for Cris, Geri looks for Leo. The four exchange affirmative glances. The next second the ref blows the whistle.

They come out into the pitch and take their positions. Geri is standing at the head of the Madrid line-up, wearing clean, shiny white; Sergio is in the middle of the Blaugrana line-up, bright red and blue stripes decorating his chest and back. It’s about to change tonight, but nobody knows. The fans are screaming, waving flags, chanting their favourites’ names. Nobody knows.

When they are shaking hands Sergio’s hand lingers on Geri’s for a second longer than the others. He looks up from their intertwined hands. “Good luck.” Sergio mouths, the movement of his lips barely visible, but there.

Kick-off.

The game is out of control. One moment Los Blancos are controlling the ball, the other it’s the Blaugranas. There’s no course, no algorithm in the way they run, no order in the goals they score. You can’t even tell who should be playing where anymore, the positions are lost.

All of the tactics, all the technique, all the strategies they worked on are useless. El Clásico is a game of its own, it has it’s own rules. Once you find yourself in it, it’s like you enter a completely different world.

El Clásico is like a large madhouse. A madhouse with a huge, metal lock on the doors but no walls; where the ceilings are low but instead of the floor there’s a deep, bottomless abyss; where the doctors have all gone mad long ago and the patients actually understand pretty well what’s going on but keep pretending, not to please the doctors but because it’s more interesting this way. Wandering around this house with a map, planning your route and trying to get to your desired location is useless. You can not control the game, the game controls you, it decides what happens and when it happens. You can only obey and hope that this time the right cards will fall into your hands.

Like in many cases, the game doesn’t go by with no blood. A terrific collision happens as Marcelo and Leo bump into each other and the next thing they see is the blood pouring out of Leo’s mouth. Geri’s heart misses a beat but he doesn’t dare get closer; Sergio and some of the other teammates run over to him to check if he’s alright. Leo silently accepts the napkin the medical staff gives him, shoves it into his mouth, gets up and keeps running.

The next victim is Bale. He gets injured and is forced to leave the pitch, making the chances more balanced, now that each team lacks one of the members of their holy attacking trio.

By the time the halftime whistle blows it’s 1-1 with goals from Casemiro and Leo.

They leave the pitch panting and physically exhausted but hungry for more. The atmosphere in the stadium is tense. It can all change radically at any moment.

“Leo! Psst, Leo, hey!”

Leo looks up, glancing around. Is he hallucinating or did somebody just…?

“Leo!”

He turns around, head following the source of the sound. There, standing next to the staff room, waiting for Leo is…

“Kun?” Leo’s eyes shoot up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering Kun waves at him to enter the room quickly. The moment Leo is in there he closes the door behind them and turns on the lights in there.

“Kun, why are we hiding in the staff room?”

“Because it’s always empty at halftime and it’s probably better if nobody sees me here.” He lets out a guilty chuckle. Once he’s finished switching on the lights he turns around to look at Leo, a wide grin on his face.

It’s not like Leo isn’t happy to see Kun, but his sudden appearance can’t help but make him worry. “How did you get here?” He asks with a frown. “Didn’t you just have a game against Arsenal a few hours ago?”

Kun tilts his head. “Yeah, we did. It’s a long story, I’ll explain later.” He reaches his hand forward, touching Leo’s cheek. “God, look what they did to you.” He lets out a light laugh, dragging his thumb down from Leo’s cheek to his bloody lip. “Jesus, Leo.”

Leo is still clutching the blood-stained napkin in his hands. “Yeah, I. Um. I think it already stopped bleeding.” He brings a hand to his mouth to feel the lip. He can still taste blood in his mouth but it seems to be the one from before. There’s nothing new, the bleeding appears to have stopped.

“Look at you. A bloody mouth, a black eye.. And you still managed to score a goal.” Kun laughs. “You’re absolutely badass, Leo.”

Leo ducks his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Stop that.”

“But it’s true!” Kun insists. “You really are!”

Leo straightens up and clears his throat. The halftime is fifteen minutes, no more, he reminds himself, the Bernabéu won’t wait. “Kun.” He says seriously. “Why are you here?”

Kun’s expression turns serious as well. He brings a hand to his face, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “Honestly, I just wanted to see how things go, but it’s not like you see a lot from off the pitch.. Did they switch yet?”

Leo shakes his head. “No.. No, they didn’t.”

Kun bites his lip. “Some kind of signs that it’s about to happen? Some kind of weird energy, flashes, static.. Something unusual?”

Leo shakes his head again. “No, nothing. I asked Sergio he said he didn’t feel anything.”

Kun presses his lips into a thin line. “This is bad.”

Leo feels himself getting worried again. “Should it have happened already? I thought they were supposed to switch at the end of the game or the next day.”

“Look.” Kun has his eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. “The initial switch takes time to happen. It can happen hours, sometimes even days after the trigger. But the final switch happens immediately. For me and Rooney it was as soon as we shook hands at the line-up.”

Leo swallows. Like Kun already said, this is bad.

“If it didn’t happen yet,” Kun goes on. “It means that the trigger wasn’t the game itself. It could’ve happened during the game, or after that, but it was something else. Do you know what it could be?”

Leo bites his lip. “Ummm.”

“Think! If we don’t do this before the match ends they might get stuck like that forever.”

“Yes, I know, let me think..” Leo glances around the room, as if it can give him some sort of hint. A trigger, an event, something that could trigger a switch… “Ah! I know!” He snaps his fingers in the air, jerking his head back to look at Kun. “I know, Kun, I know what it was!”

“What? Leo, calm down and tell me.”

“Cristiano. I was talking to Cristiano about it - he said.. He said that Geri said that he and Sergio had a… Uh, well, Geri said ‘encounter’ but I think it was pretty clear that it was a fight.”

“A fight..” Kun repeats slowly.

“Yeah, a fight.”

“Uh huh.” Kun rubs his chin with his thumb, looking at the floor thoughtfully. “Leo,” He asks. “How much time do we have until the second half?”

“Um..” Leo glances up at the clock on one of the walls. “About.. Ten minutes? Yeah, almost ten minutes.”

“Good. Go get Gerard, Ramos and Ronaldo and bring them here. We need a plan.”

Leo nods. A plan.

 

Getting Sergio is the easier part. He runs back into the Barça dressing room and tells him to go wait for him, Geri and Cristiano in the staff room. Sergio, of course, starts asking questions, but Leo easily dismisses them all.

“Kun is already there, he’ll explain everything.”

Cristiano and Geri are the harder part. Leo wastes over half a minute standing in front of the Blancos’ dressing room, trying to decide what to do. He can’t really go in there and say “Hi, yes, can you please give me your captain and your star, we need to talk”, can he? Just as he start considering just going back to Barça’s dressing room and calling Geri from his phone, somebody comes out of the room. Leo turns around and starts walking away but it’s too late, he was noticed.

“Oh! Messi!” Leo turns around slowly. It’s Marcelo. “Hey, man, how is your…” Marcelo gestures at his mouth, then at Leo.

“Oh, um. It’s good, yeah. Well, not good but better.” He really has no time for this right now. “Listen, I really gotta--”

“About that, look.” Marcelo bites his lip, looking horribly guilty. “I’m so sorry about what happened, I swear I didn’t mean to. You were behind me and I didn’t notice you when I was--”

Leo wave his hand dismissively. “No, no, it’s okay!” He assures him. “I get it, really! It’s football, stuff like this happens.”

Marcelo smiles in relief. “Thank you. So we’re good, yeah?”

Leo nods quickly. “Of course.”

“Good.” Marcelo smiles warmly at him. “Good luck in the second half.” He turns around, heading to whatever location he was meaning to go from the start when…

“Wait!” Leo stops him.

The Brazilian turns around. “Mhmm?”

“I..” Leo bites his lip, hesitating for a second. Marcelo seems like a good guy. He and Neymar are close and Leo’s never heard Ney (or Dani, for that matter) say a single bad thing about him. Maybe this is what he needs. “Can you.. Can you do a favour for me?”

Marcelo blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, whatever you want. I mean, unless it’s scoring an own goal or letting you through on purpose.” He laughs.

Leo chuckles. “No, it’s nothing like that, don’t worry.” He promises. “Can you… Can you please call Cristiano and Sergio for me? Ask them to come out here? But!” He adds quickly. “Don’t say it’s me, okay? Say your coach called them or something.”

Marcelo frowns. “Cris and Sergio? Uhh.. Okay.” He shrugs. “Yeah, cool, why not.” Leo exhales in relief. He’s grateful Marcelo didn’t ask any questions. It’s not exactly a normal request and he had all the reason to ask. But maybe he saw it on his face that it was important. “Gimme a sec.” Marcelo turns around and disappears in the chaos of the dressing room again.

“Thank you!” Leo shouts after him before the door closes completely.

 

Cristiano and Geri come out a few seconds later, chatting about something between them. The moment they notice Leo they stop.

“Oh.” Cristiano is the first to react. “Guess it wasn’t Zizou who wanted to talk to us after all.”

“Leo!” Geri rushes to him, a worried frown on his face. “How is it?” He asks, eyeing Leo’s mouth. “You alright? I wanted to approach you, earlier, you know, but..”

“It’s fine, Geri, I’m okay.” Leo wishes people would just stop asking. “Let’s go. We don’t have time.”

 

“Oh la la, won’t you look at this.” Geri murmurs once he enters the room. “Sergio and Sergio.”

Sergio snorts. “Yeah. I was just joking with Sergio number two about it.”

Kun makes some indignant sound at the back of his throat at being called Sergio number _two_ but Leo claps his hands, putting an end to an argument that hasn’t even begun yet. “Guys. It’s important. We have to discuss it before the seconds half starts.” Once there’s complete silence he turns to Kun. “Kun. Tell them.”

“Alright.” Kun jumps down from the table he was sitting on, stepping into the center of the room. “Like Leo just said we have little to no time. So let’s make it quick.”

He tells them what he told Leo just a few minutes ago; explains everything he knows about the switch and how it’s triggered, and how he and Leo think that the switch might’ve been caused by the fight Geri and Sergio had after the last El Clásico.

“God..” Sergio drags his hand down his face. “If only I knew how much trouble it would cause..”

“I know.” Geri pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t even mean any of what I said.”

“I don’t even _remember_ what I said!” Sergio exclaims.

“It’s not the fight itself.” Kun explains. “It’s the circumstances, your past, all of the other fights that came before..”

“Fine, fine, we got!” Geri exclaims. “What do we do?”

Kun crosses his arms. “That’s a good question. I don’t have an answer to it. That’s why we’re here, to think about it together.”

Leo bites his lip. They have a little over four minutes left until they’re called back to the tunnel. What do they do? It’s not like you can just call another person ‘stupid’ and call it a fight. There has to be some sort of base to it, a reason.

“I… Might have an idea.” All four pair of eyes focus on Cristiano. “But.. It’s a really bad idea, I’m warning you.” He looks at Sergio. “It may cost us our victory.” His eyes jump to Leo. “And.. It involves Leo getting hurt again.”

Geri frowns. “What kind of sadistic idea is that?”

Cristiano catches his bottom lip with his teeth, the releases it. “Geri.. Can you.. Can you foul Leo?” Silence. Leo shifts his weight from one foot to the other, he thinks he understands where Cristiano is going with this. “Tackle him. But tackle him hard. Nothing damaging, of course, Leo will jump over it, but it has to _look_ like it’s damaging. Then..” His gaze returns to rest on Sergio again. “Sergio will get a red card.”

Geri appears to be thinking the idea over in his head. He looks at Leo. “It’s up to you. I’m not agreeing to it unless you’re okay with it.”

“I… Actually, I think it’s a good idea.” Leo confesses. “It has to be something big. Anything smaller than that is too risky.”

Cristiano nods. “Yeah. As I already said, it might cost us our victory. We’re only half a team without Sergio, half a defence. If he gets sent off our only chance will be to score more than Barça. And, well,” Cristiano bites his lip again. “We’ll have to see. Everyone is tired after Bayern.”

Sergio slaps him on the shoulder. “Relax, man, it’s fine, we’ll do our best. Although..” He grins sheepishly. “I won’t be able to do anything if I get sent off so don’t count on me.”

“But guys,” Leo interrupts their mourning. “What if the ref doesn’t give a straight red.”

Sergio scoffs. “He will, don’t worry. It’s always red when it’s Sergio Ramos, for some reason.”

“Alright, alright.” This time it’s Kun. “Let’s go through the plan one more time, okay?”

 

They don’t do it straight away once they’re on the pitch. They wait until the middle of the match and then, then they go for it. It’s the perfect moment, Leo has the ball, the wing is clear. Geri looks at him, as if asking _are you sure?_ Leo blinks. _I am_.

He lunges forward and pushes the ball with him. Focus on the game, he tells himself, don’t look aside.

Geri comes with a tackle from his left. Leo jumps. There’s no damage but there’s definitely contact. He doesn’t manage to keep his balance and ends up falling, rolling over twice before his body comes to a halt. Leo grabs his ankle, hissing in pain. It’s certainly been more painful than what he supposed, but they have to make it believable.

Once the tackle is over Geri turns around to look at Leo. He’s touching his hand is on his ankle but he seems fine. The contact was not too harsh. A part of him instinctively wants to come over and ask if he’s alright, but the other, more rational one, tells him to act his part. The ref is next to time in a matter of seconds and so are Sergio and Cristiano.

“That’s a clear red!” Sergio exclaims, stomping over to the ref. It looks so believable Geri wonders for a moment if it’s really him. “Ramos fouled him! Ref, that’s a red!”

Geri jumps up, starting to shout as well. “I barely touched him! It’s a yellow at best!”

The Bernabéu splits into two as well: the madridistas are booing Messi, calling him a diver, yelling out “fifalona”, while the culés are asking for a red card, calling Ramos names.

The ref finally makes his decision. He raises a card in the air. It’s a red.

The Bernabéu erupts into boos and whistles. This is it, this is the moment.

“Gerard!” Geri shouts, snapping his fingers to get Sergio’s attention. “Now you can talk!” He exclaims, clapping his hands sarcastically. “Now you can talk!”

Sergio is in front of him in a matter of seconds. “Angry, Ramos? Not used to refs treating you fairly?”

Geri shoves him in the chest, hard. Sergio pushes back. All of a sudden there’s some kind of static, like an electric shock between them. For a second, everything goes black, and the next thing he knows is that they’re both on the ground. There’s people screaming everywhere.

“Piqué needs to learn how to stay in his lane!” Carvajal is yelling.

“That fucker almost broke Leo’s legs!” Busquets is protesting.

Geri’s head is hurting. He brings his hand up to rub his forehead and freezes. The hair. It feels shorter. Spikier. Ungelled. Geri forces himself to open his eyes and looks down at the kit he’s wearing. His heart misses a beat. It’s the good, old, familiar blaugrana, red next to blue, blue next to red. The sight almost makes Geri tear up. His head isn’t hurting anymore.

He looks up only to find Sergio sitting across from him in a similar position. He’s caressing the crest with his fingers, looking at it like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Sergio looks up, meeting his gaze, and grins. _We did it_.

Their little paradise is interrupted by Alba pulling Sergio’s jersey. “Stop lying around! Get up, you got a red card, you have nothing to do here!”

Casemiro grabs his wrist, pushing him away. “Fuck off.” He growls.

Sergio’s mood is way too good to get involved in any of it. He jumps up, takes his armband off and puts it on Marcelo. He slaps a grinning Cristiano on the back, sends an apologetic smile in Leo’s direction, throws a few words to Casemiro and Carvajal and heads in the direction of the bench. Before he’s completely gone he turns around, one last time. Maybe he’s imagining things but Geri could swear he’s looking at him.

 

-

 

“I still don’t understand.” When the match ended Leo went straight to the tunnel, the same room from before where he supposed Kun would be waiting for him. He didn’t get to shower you so he’s still quite sweaty from the game, but Kun doesn’t seem to mind. “If, like you said, the universe knows what it’s doing, how comes that this worked even though the entire fight was completely staged?”

Kun looks at him funny. “You didn’t get it, did you?”

Leo frowns. Kun’s casual tone makes him feel like he’s missing out something very basic. “No, I really didn’t.”

Kun sighs. “It wasn’t about the fight. Remember what they told each other in the original fight, according to Geri’s story? That they would rather die than be each other, that they’re nothing alike. And now look.” Kun’s lips twist into a satisfied smile. “They cooperated together to reach a joint goal without even realising it. They pretended to be each other for almost the entire game and..how many months before that? Half a season. So yes, the universe got exactly what it wanted.”

Leo becomes aware of the fact that his mouth is open. “I..” He closes it back quickly. “God..” He mumbles in disbelief. “This is.. I can’t believe I didn’t realise it before. Wow.” He’s honestly mindblown. It almost sounds way too clever to be true, makes him wonder if maybe Kun is somehow part of the plan, the one who organised all of it, even though he realises it’s impossible. “Kun, that’s so smart.”

Kun sends him a playful wink. “I know, thanks.”

Leo laughs. “You ass.” He swats at his arm. “Could’ve told me from the very beginning.”

 

-

 

“Geri!”

Geri feels a strong hand collide with his back.

“Um. Sergio. Ouch.”

Sergio snickers apologetically. “Sorry dude.” He skips over, positioning himself in front of Geri with his arms crossed over his chest. There’s a wide grin plastered on his face. He doesn’t look like the captain of a team that just lost El Clásico. “Are you gonna tweet about it?”

Geri raises his eyebrows. “About what?”

Sergio spreads his hands out, like what he’s talking about is the most obvious thing in the world. “About that unfair treatment. _You_ ,” He jabs a finger at his chest. “Committed the foul and _I_ was the one who got sent off. A bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Geri snorts. “Very funny.” He places a hand on Sergio’s shoulder and smirks. “You look so happy, shall I remind you who’s at the top of table?”

Sergio scoffs. “We have the same amount of points. And we still have a game in hand. So.. We’ll see.”

It’s the same teasing as always, but there’s something different about it. Somehow it’s lighter; there’s no venom in it, no intention to hurt, they’re really just teasing, nothing more.

Sergio grins at him. “And moreover, why should I _not_ be happy? I’m not a culé anymore, that by itself is already a blessing.”

Geri laughs. He gets what Sergio is talking about, he feels the same. Pretending to like Madrid for so many months straight was..exhausting, to put it mildly.

“Also!” Sergio exclaims. He raises hi arm, twirling the wrist, flexing it back and forth. “I like _my_ body more. You may be taller but I’m definitely stronger.”

Geri widens his eyes. “Oh, are you?”

Sergio nods, ignoring the sarcasm in Geri’s question. “Wanna find out?”

Geri scoffs. “Thank you but I think I’ll pass. Not the best time to get injured, you know? We have La Liga and La copa to win and stuff.”

Sergio gives him a look. “Sure.” His phone buzzes suddenly and he reaches for his pocket to check it. “It’s Cris. I gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Geri nods. “My people are probably waiting too, we need to celebrate and all.”

“Of course. And we need to go make a place on the shelf for our 12th Champions trophy.”

Geri can’t leave this one without a comment. “God, you’re ridiculous.” An involuntary laugh leaves his lips. “Don’t jinx yourself.”

“I won’t.” Sergio grins at him, but this time the grin is closer to a smile. “So, I’ll see you around I guess?”

“Yeah, sure.” Geri makes a vague gesture with his hand. “We won’t leave until tomorrow afternoon so if you want to we could, I don’t know..”

“Hang out and play The Walking Dead?” Sergio prompts.

Geri considers the offer. “Well, I had something more in the direction of Warcraft on my mind but zombies are cool too, I guess.”

“Warcraft it is, then.” Sergio’s phone buzzes again but he chooses to ignore it. “Well, I have only one thing to tell you, then, big guy.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?”

Sergio raises his hand for a high five. “Visca el Madrid.”

Geri smirks. Of course.

He raises his hand, completing the high five. “Hala Barça.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had to drop a lot of events bc of the deadline but i'll probably write an epilogue. please leave comments, it's the only thing that keeps my heart beating <3


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